


Blood for Money

by icantwritegood



Series: Blood [1]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: 1920s/1930s, 2 bitches just bitching at each other, Competition, Drugs, References to Drugs, Rival Relationship, Rivalry, Tinsworth, but its the 1920s baby, emphasis on chaotic, goldsworth mob, i think, ricky is neutral evil, ricky/tinsley in this is v. cersei and margaery, seaside town setting, shyan, they smoke a lot, this is gonna have at least 2 parts, tinsley is chaotic good, with his own dubious morals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-10-10 17:03:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 90,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17429960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icantwritegood/pseuds/icantwritegood
Summary: C.C. Tinsley, a sharp-tongued P.I. with an unwavering focus on justice and a need to give people what they deserve, is contacted by a mystery caller to help solve a murder in a quiet seaside town. His arrival is akin to a very big rock dropping into a very small pond.The Goldsworths are a rich family with the entire town in their pocket. A stranger in their midst is not welcome, but he seems to refuse to leave, no matter the consequences. Someone was murdered, and he intends to find out who did it, and to give everyone what they deserve along the way.The consequences come hard and fast. Some people just don't like what they deserve.





	1. A Tall Handsome Stranger Rode Into Town

It was a seaside town. At night it was sketched in pencil. During the day it was painted in the most brilliant oils. The dusk and the dawn brought views that made one and their problems feel blissfully small; the sea stretched out and out, hiding its horizon behind foggy fingers, and the coast road crept behind the coast wall. The village was small and quaint. Houses were pastel in an unspoken rule, all apart from the mansion built into the side of the highest hill. But people didn't mind this palace among their huts. It was worth it for what they received. The only other building that stuck out was the police station, in its drab gray rock and its constant scowling onto the main street.

On this night, it was foggy. The town and sea and sky were painted in misty watercolors, the lighthouse struggling to shine through it. A woman and a man patrolled the street. They both walked tall. The woman wore a tartan scarf up around the lower half of her face; her mouth emerged only to sip at the paper cup of coffee in her hand. The man swung an umbrella in lieu of a walking stick, the curved handle sliding casually back and forth in his gloved hand. His bowler hat sat at an angle above his paunchy, mustached face. She was a criminal. He was a police chief. They were good friends.

“Why did she call him?” The woman spoke in a British accent, high-society, her gray hair pinned up atop her head. “Why didn’t she go straight to you?”

The man rumbled his response. “I have no darn idea. All I know is she did it on purpose, so she did. He’s probably on his way here now.”

“Lucy won’t like that. You’ll have to keep him under wraps.”

“I sure will.”

The woman threw a glance at him. She knew he sure wouldn’t. He was the police chief not for his skill, but for his easily manipulated mind. He was an insecure man, and out to prove himself to anyone who cared to care. They were few and far around here.

“Was it one of yours?” asked the chief, his umbrella tap-tap-tapping against the concrete path. It was the only sound in the otherwise silent town. “Ricardo again?”

“No. No, Ricky’s been quiet for the past while. Lucía gave him a hell of a scolding last time.” Her voice was muffled behind her scarf. Her breath fogged up her wire-framed glasses. “...She’ll want him to take care of this.”

“What?!” The tapping stopped. “Ricky? Take care of something as delicate as this?”

The woman didn’t reply for a moment. She took a small bottle of rye from her pocket, and added a generous splash to her coffee. She tasted it. She tasted it again, for longer. “...Lucy is sick, Banjo.”

A pause. “How sick?”

The woman pressed her thin lips in a line. “Very sick. Her lungs are… playing tricks on her.”

The chief stared at her in horror, his bushy brows raised. “Holly, no. Tell me you’re joking.”

“Unfortunately not.” Holly Horsley shook her head. A wisp of silver hair fell forwards. “It’s those cigarettes. I told her as much. She won’t listen. She says there’s no point in stopping now. And I suppose she has a point.”

“...But how do we deal with this private detective without her?”

“With great difficulty, Banjo.” She sighed wearily, her gaze lowered as they continued on. “With great difficulty.”

* * *

It was raining outside, a heavy downpour like a swinging bead curtain. The window was fogged up, cold to the touch. He wiped the back of his hand against it, making himself a window within the window. He put the cigarette back in his mouth, puffing at it morosely. He had one night off before starting, and it had to be the night he couldn’t step outside without drowning instantly. He’d mixed himself a hot coffee with a dash of whiskey, and he took a sip, the liquid burning his tongue. He let it sit a while before swallowing. He sat in his armchair, long legs crossed, still watching the street outside. He had the window open an inch, just to listen to the rain battering the tarmac below, the surf licking at the fog only across the road. The water looked like ink. He couldn’t see that far out to sea. The fog hid the horizon from him, pale like the steam from his mug. He took another sip of his drink, and went back to the letter he was scribbling out. Oh, the words were thought out very carefully indeed. But the writing could not be careful. It had to be crazed. The pen scrawled, and he dashed a line through it, the fresh black ink shining. He got a clean blank piece of paper. He started again. It had to be perfect. It had to be perfectly imperfect. He sipped his coffee.

The phone rang, a bright trilling that belonged in the daylight. He let a hand drift out to catch hold of it. His fingers brushed the receiver before fixing around it. He put it to his ear for a moment before saying: “Tinsley.”

There was a silence in response. Tinsley repeated his name with a bit more firmness, lifting his gaze from the letter he was writing. He supposed no one in this town knew who he was yet, but the truth was that literally every single person had learned about him the second he stepped foot into the town. He looked out the window. Two figures were ambling along the path, one swinging an umbrella with a happy-go-lucky attitude. He frowned distractedly.

“Hello? This is C.C. Tinsley. Talking to you.”

“The private detective?”

Tinsley didn’t reply for a moment. The low, smokey words had his shoulders tenser than a brick wall. “Who is this?”

“My name is Lucía Goldsworth. I heard about your arrival in my town.” She sounded friendly enough, although there was a roughness to her voice. It disappeared when she cleared her throat. “I know it's late, but I was wondering if you'd like to come to my house so I can introduce myself.”

He didn't reply for a moment. “How did you get my number?”

“I'll explain once you're here. I look forward to meeting you, detective.” She hung up.

He took the phone away from his ear, giving it a flat look. He dropped it back onto the hook. He went back to the letter for all of two minutes. Then he tucked the page away and got to his feet. He shrugged his coat on, putting his cigarette between his teeth as he clamped his hat down on top of his unruly hair. He yanked on his gloves. Really, whatever this Lucía wanted to talk about was probably none of his business, but that was enough for him to get involved. First, finish his coffee.

He was just about to consider the fact he had been given no real destination when his door was knocked upon. With a long and loud sigh (hopefully loud enough for the knocker to hear it), he did something he rarely did. He abandoned his coffee. He opened the door. An unfamiliar face looked back. Tinsley tilted his head like a curious puppy.

“...Hello?”

The man was relatively short - although everyone was to Tinsley - and broad-shouldered, his hands deep in the pockets of his long dark coat. His dark eyes crawled over Tinsley’s face, taking their time. They were eyes that glittered hungrily, for so many things. Tinsley let his hand rest on the door; his gun lay on the table to the right, just beside his keys. The man just stared at him like he was a cold slab of meat. Maybe he stared at everyone like that. Maybe that’s how he saw people. Tinsley cleared his throat before trying again.

“Can I help you or something?” He made a point of checking his watch, looking down his pointy nose at it, pointedly. “It’s pretty, uh, late.”

“Mm. I know.” The man’s voice was low, a purr. It sent shivers through Tinsley in every way. “Sorry to disturb you. I must’ve got the wrong number.”

Tinsley watched him warily, one hand still resting on the door, the other by his side, fingers hungry for the trigger that lay inches away. “Yeah. Sorry ‘bout it.”

“No, I should be the one apologizing for waking you up at such an… inconvenient time. Although it seems you weren’t asleep.” The man tilted his head aside, taking a gloved hand from his pocket, a carved silver cigarette tin in it. He didn’t move away. He put a cigarette between his full lips, making a half-hearted attempt at searching his pockets for a lighter. “Ah. Help me out here?”

Tinsley didn’t respond for a moment. He should slam the door, and lock it, and stick a chair under the handle. He should make a grab for his gun, and tell the guy to piss off. He didn’t see that working, however. The guy would probably take the gun from him and eat it. So he just reached into his back pocket, highly aware of how open he now was to attack. Nothing came. He flipped the lighter open, letting it catch the end of the man’s cigarette. Their eyes didn’t leave each other, even through the flame. The lighter snapped shut. Tinsley straightened up with a quiet inhale. The man smiled, a dazzling one, a split second where the night became day. Then he spoke.

“You don’t know which apartment C.C. Tinsley is in, do you?”

“Nope.”

“Shame.” The word was rolled off his tongue. “I’d ask someone else, but you seem to be the only one around who’s not where they should be. In bed.”

Tinsley paused at this, his eyes stuck to the shorter man’s. Those dark eyes, as dark as the lashes around them. Dark and dangerous. Dark and deadly. He tried a smile of his own, adopting his usual charming one. “What’s the name, pal? I’ll see if his number’s in the book, tell him you’re looking for him.”

It was the other man’s turn to pause. “It’s fine. I don’t want to bother you.”

“Oh, don’t you not?”

The anger flashed across the man’s face, a dash of lightning behind thunderclouds. But still handsome. Tinsley observed him closer, leaning against his door as he let his gaze trail over him. Yes. Very handsome. No. _Pretty_. Full lips, soft cheeks, a straight nose, a sharp jaw dusted with stubble. A very pretty young man. Tinsley smiled.

“You have a very distinguishable face, stranger,” said Tinsley, feeling a lot more relaxed than a few seconds ago. “Really striking.” A heavy pause. “I’d say I could pick you out of a line-up from miles away.”

This did not elicit a friendly response. The man gave him a contemptuous once-over through the haze of his cigarette smoke. He turned aside, letting his eyes rest on the number on Tinsley’s apartment door, the shiny copper 14. Then he said: “You have a pretty distinguishable face too. That's not a great thing around here."

"Okay."

"So don't go getting into other people's business."

Tinsley, the private detective with a job that centered explicitly on getting into other people's business, nodded with another warm smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it, stranger.”

He shut the door over gently. He waited, hands pressed to the door, along with an ear. Silence. Then a few slow footsteps. Then the footsteps picked up, and the late-night caller left. Tinsley let out a sigh of relief, forehead resting against the door, eyes closed. Then he straightened back up, and smoothed down his shirt, and moved back to the window. He sat down. He took a sip of his coffee. It had cooled considerably. He considered making another, but didn't. It was only when he went to continue writing his letter that he noticed his hand was shaking.

“Jesus,” he muttered, watching his own hand, raising it up in front of him. “Well, that's not good.”

And really, nothing diminishes anxiety faster than action.

* * *

"You did what?!"

"I just dropped by. Sized him up. Don't tell Holly." He chucked his coat onto the coat rack. The Mayor swiftly righted it. "And there was a lot to size, I'll tell you that. The guy's a giant."

"Everyone's a giant around you, Ricky."

"Shut up." He went to the drinks cabinet, making a scotch and soda, adding some ice. He liked his drinks cold. "When did my mom say he was coming?"

"Whenever he finds out how to get here." The woman sat on the red plush _chaise lounge_ in the parlor, in her bathrobe, her long legs stretched out to the side, her dark skin shining in the low light from the oil lamps. She could've been a photograph. "See how good of a detective he really is, huh?"

"Eh, he seemed a bit ditsy." He sat on the table, legs swinging casually as he sipped at his drink. "I'd say give him twenty-four hours before he clicks who I was."

They looked up at the sound of an approaching voice, sounding as panicked as it sounded every day. Every day once a day, Holly Horsley was panicked. Such a job would do that to a person.

"I can't believe this. It's a disaster." She came through the door, chucking her gray coat aside into the air. The Mayor swept it away to join Ricky's on the rack. "A detective from out of town? This is a disaster. What is he doing here?"

"I don't know. That's why Lucy wants him here, I guess."

"I know that, Fran," said Horsley dismissively, helping herself to a stiff scotch. She flicked open her black cigarette case and lit one up, puffing at it agitatedly. "What if he's trouble? What if he-"

The doorbell rang out, knelling like a bell around the corridors. The occupants of the room looked to the Mayor, who stared back blankly with his gray eyes. The doorbell rang again, and again, purposely rhythmic. Horsley glowered.

"Are we expecting someone?"

"I don't recall there being a visitor scheduled." The Mayor smoothed his gray hair as he paced towards the door. "I'll go and see what it is."

Ricky sat back, sipping away at his drink as the bell rang and rang and rang. It suddenly stopped, indicating that the Mayor had finally made his way through the manse and to the door. He returned seconds later, but not alone.

"Sir, I'm afraid you can't just-"

"It's business. I know these people."

"I doubt that that is true, sir."

"It's true, it's true. I got a phone call earlier."

Ricky's head snapped up at the voice, freezing mid-sip, his eyes wide. He knew that voice, the lazy drawl that got slower as the sentence got longer, as if the owner just wasn't bothered to finish speaking. Ricky got down off the table, joining Horsley in staring at the door, waiting for the voices to reach them. Fran went back to her book with blatant disinterest.

He came through the double doors like a six-foot-four tornado in a trench coat, the Mayor scurrying after him in a futile attempt to get him to slow down. The detective came to an abrupt halt a few steps into the room, finally taking his hat off, revealing thick hair that hadn't seen a comb in days, if ever. He readjusted his glasses on his pointy nose, staring at Ricky. Then he pointed at him before saying: "You're a Goldsworth."

Fran laughed delightedly. She looked at Ricky's stunned face. So much for twenty-four hours.

"But you can't all be Goldsworths," said the detective as if he was speaking to himself. "Unless adoption is encouraged. You Lucía?"

Horsley shook her head, bewildered, her panic mounting by the second. "No. No, I'm not- How did you get here?"

"I followed him," said the detective, pointing at Ricky again. "Even though he drives like a madman. You broke the limit about ten times coming up here, asshole."

Ricky blinked a glare onto his face. "Excuse me? You can't just- No, Mayor, don't take his coat. He's not staying."

"I am staying," said the detective, adjusting his tie around his open collar. He didn't seem like the type of man who was into buttoning collars. "Because I was invited by the woman I'm assuming is your sister or mother or aunt or something. Lucía."

"She's not here," said Horsley sternly, stepping forwards. "She's-"

"Ah, Detective Tinsley."

The woman herself swanned in through the double doors behind Tinsley. Her fur shawl was wrapped around her, as if there was even a remote chill in the air. There wasn't. What there was was comfy plush furniture, multiple oil lamps, and a roaring fire in the far wall. She went right up to Tinsley, taking his hand in hers, and for a moment she owned it.

"I'm so glad you could make it," she said with a smooth smile. Her hair was dyed gold, tastefully. Her fingers were littered with golden rings. The drink in her hand was gold. There were flecks of gold in her brown eyes. She was a million dollar woman. "I usually kiss guests on the cheek, but you're a bit too tall for that, aren't you?"

"Apologies."

She didn't look much like Ricky. Her face was narrower, her eyes weren't as dark. Ricky's were so brown they could've passed as black. Tinsley allowed her to take his arm, escorting him further into the room, where the other occupants were about as welcoming as rabid tigers. If Lucía Goldsworth noticed the open hostility, she either didn't care or didn't acknowledge it. She lead Tinsley to the fire, sitting him down on one of the armchairs. He almost sank into it. By the time he straightened himself up, the others had gathered like a murder of crows. Lucía Goldsworth sat, pristine, the fire casting one side of her face in shadow. Her son stood to her right, his black eyes as intense at the hot coals only a few feet away. Horsley hovered on the left, the woman in the bathrobe stood poised behind Lucía's chair. The tall man who either _was_ the mayor or had been affectionately nicknamed the Mayor stood straight as a chess piece behind them. Tinsley wouldn't be too surprised if the former was the truth. They looked like a framed painting. The silence was broken only by the crackling fire, and the distant sound of church bells ringing morosely. It must be midnight.

"Why did you want me here?" he asked, beginning to get fed up. He felt like a piece of dust being examined under multiple microscopes. "It's quite late."

"Why are you here?" asked the gray-haired woman, adjusting her wire-framed glasses. They glinted in the firelight. Her eyes flashed similarly. "A detective from out of town isn't wel- isn't frequent."

Tinsley shrugged. "I was asked to come here."

"By who?"

"I don't know."

"How do you not know?"

His brows came together in a frown, offended. "What is this? Why did you want me here?"

"Do you even know anything about the death?" said Ricky condescendingly, an elbow resting on the back of his mother's chair.

"I know more about it than you do, pal," replied Tinsley, sharp enough to cut. He returned the glare. "But nothing I'd disclose to any of you. I wasn't aware of what you were, exactly."

"Elaborate," said Ricky through gritted teeth.

"I feel like I was invited to a dinner, but it turns out I'm the meal," said Tinsley in very clear words. "So if you'll excuse me-"

"Now, now," said Lucía, raising a bejeweled hand. The rings sparkled aggressively. "I apologize, detective. We're all a bit on edge. The man who was murdered was our chauffeur."

Tinsley sat back, his fingers tapping the arms of the chair in an agitated rhythm. "Well my apologies then, Lucía. I-"

"Please, call me Lucy."

"Lucy." He said the name slowly, as if speaking too suddenly would bring a curse on him and his first born. "And I'm not really a detective. I'm a private detective. So-"

"I know." She smiled again. It was the one thing Ricky did seem to have gotten from her; the openly mischievous grin, just a tad lopsided, perfectly so. "I just wanted to extend our... welcome to you. To the town."

He gave them each a long look. All of them were attempting to disguise their true emotions with smiles as transparent and fragile as a pane of cracking glass. Apart from Ricky. He scowled. Tinsley looked at him for the longest. He wasn't unpleasant to look at, after all. "Well thank you. I feel so welcome."

This got a snorted laugh from the woman in the bathrobe. She swiftly stifled it, her perfect face settling back to cool observance. What an odd bunch. Tinsley placed a finger under the frame of his glasses, scooching them further up his nose. He risked getting to his feet. Nobody moved to stop him. He wasn't sure why he expected someone to try and stop him. They all seemed poised to attack. No, not all of them. Just Ricky. The man's grip tightened on Lucy's chair, then loosened, then tightened again. His eyes didn't leave Tinsley's. 

"It was lovely meeting you," said Tinsley slowly, smoothing down his tie. "But I have to be up early in the morning. To meet the chief. And go to the scene. So... thank you."

"The chief is a lovely man," said Lucy, still with that smile. "Loyal to the bone."

Tinsley just nodded. He turned to leave. The tall man, the Mayor, stood ready to escort him out. He looked as if he'd been around to escort Jesus out of his tomb. There was silence until he left, and the doors closed behind him. Horsley spoke first.

"He has no idea who we are."

"He has no idea about this place at all," said Lucy quietly, her gaze distant. "Which means we'll have to either be careful, or bring him into the fold. We-"

She descended into a fit of harsh coughing. Horsley swiped a napkin from her pocket, leaning down, handing it to Lucy. The coughing seemed to go on forever, sounded like it was coming from the very bottom of her lungs. Ricky bit his lip, the anxiety washing over him again. He knew his mother was sick. He just wasn't sure how badly. He was too afraid to ask. Lucy eventually ceased the shoulder-wracking coughs, hiding the napkin away in her bag. No one needed to see the red dotting the white fabric. Some things were best kept hidden.

"I'm going to the envelope," she breathed, getting to her feet just a tad unsteadily. "I'll see you all in the morning."

Ricky waited until her and Horsley had left. Then he turned to Fran. "I'm going in the morning."

"Of course you are." She rolled her eyes, sitting on the seat Lucy had just been in. Ricky took the other one; it was still warm from the detective. "You're a man of action, Ricky Goldsworth."

"There's something not right about him," muttered Ricky, rubbing the back of his fingers along his jaw. The stubble scratched them. "I don't like him."

"Of course you don't. He followed you all the way across town and you didn't even notice." She raised her perfect eyebrows, striking a match and lighting a cigarette. "When's the last time that's happened, hm?"

"Never."

"Never."

He sat back, resting his chin in his hand as he glowered into the fire. His family owned the town. The town that could've been an idyllic tourist destination, but wasn't. And that was because it was a drug-trafficking town. Boats would sail into the harbor stuffed with money, and they'd sail back out stuffed with fish or pottery or bags of coffee beans, as long as those objects were in turn stuffed with a fine white powder that people paid a lot - a _lot_ \- of money for. They made billions a year. They owned the local police, and in turn they kept the town safe and prospering. It was a fair deal. The Goldsworths had their own city-state, essentially, and they were the nearest thing to royalty. Lucy was the queen, and Ricky was the heir. Horsley, Fran, the Mayor, they were a council of sorts. The police force was the city watch. But this C.C. Tinsley? If he wasn't an ally, he was an enemy. Whether he knew it or not. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have returned with renewed interest in c.c. tinsley and ricky goldsworth, with many thanks to panthermouth's art on tumblr.com
> 
> im gonna be updating this about once a week
> 
> im so into this shit its like taking over my mind
> 
> let's go lesbians


	2. The Pier

Lucy sat at her desk. It was a nice desk, nice and long and wide, situated in front of the largest window in the house, with a nice glass banker's lamp for when the window lost its use. Before her were three large journals; one red, one blue, and one black. The red one was open. She was skimming through it, one red-nailed hand holding a black fountain pen at the ready. A warrior and her weapon of choice. Her eyes didn’t leave the page in front of her. They were tired eyes, despite the numerous creams she was opt to using. It was a type of tiredness that was simply a part of her by now, as much as the eyes themselves were. The pen was lowered to the page. It scratched in a few orders.

“In case you’re wondering, Ricky,” she said, smiling at him. “There’s no particular reason I called for you. I just wanted to see you.”

He stifled his own smile, pressing his lips together. He didn’t reply as she went back to the diaries. He leaned forwards slightly to get a better look. It was a diary, the dates and days laid out. He raised an eyebrow, but he stayed quiet. Lucy needed silence to concentrate.

“Do you know what this is, Ricky?” she asked, folding her hands on top of the pages. The rings shone on her fingers.

He shook his head. “Nope. A diary?”

“A diary.” She tapped it. “Red is sales. Deals, discussions, meetings, promises. More importantly, broken promises. Always date down your betrayals, Ricky.”

He nodded, but he’d never needed a diary for that.

“Blue is employees,” she said, tapping the relevant journal. “Always keep a list. Names, where they live, family members. And black-” She tapped that one with a single firm finger. “-is Norris’. You know this one.”

He nodded again, leaning forwards, folding his arms on the desk. “Hitlist.”

“Hitlist.” She gave him a long look. “This is the one you should be opening the least, Ricky. Red is the one you should be opening the most. The more they begin to balance out, the more you’re losing control. Yes?”

He glanced at her, knowing exactly what she was trying to say. He was surprised she wasn’t just saying it straight-out. _Don’t resort to killing unless you have to_. He had an issue with that. He knew he did. Killing was just easier, it just wiped the slate clean. But for now, he just nodded. He rested his chin on his hand as she went back to work. She looked back up after a few minutes of pen scratching paper. There was a soft look in her otherwise steely eyes.

“You look like your father when you do that.”

Ricky lifted his gaze from the diary to her eyes. He didn’t speak for a moment. He was a tad shocked. “What?”

“You have your father’s face. The shape. It’s uncanny.”

He dropped his hands, clamping them between his legs. He swallowed. Usually when she brought up his father it was a tremor before an earthquake. “...You never told me that.”

“I never wanted to. He was a bad man, Ricky.” She shrugged. “But I was lucky when I had him by my side.” Her eyes landed on him again. “It’s very important to have the right person by your side, _mi tesoro_. It matters. It really does.” She raised an eyebrow. “How are you coming along, in that regard?”

Ricky opened his mouth. Then he closed it. He could feel himself reddening. “I don’t know. I don’t have to think about it yet, though, do I.”

She skipped a beat. “No. I guess not. But you don’t… have your eye on anyone?”

Ricky sat back in his chair, suddenly feeling highly uncomfortable altogether. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help it. He knew his mother wouldn’t do anything; she knew about him, anyway. She knew he didn’t want a wife. Or a woman at all.

“Ricky. _Mi tesoro_.” She closed the diary over, marking her place by leaving the pen in between the pages. “I know that you don’t want that. But it’s very, very important.”

“I know.”

“You know what they’re like. There was unrest enough about you. A fatherless child to take over from me? Blasphemous.” She spoke the words dryly, openly disapproving of the rhetoric. “But a fatherless child who may himself be childless? They’ll tear you apart when- when I'm not here anymore."

Ricky stayed silent, resting an elbow on the desk, rubbing the back of his neck. He knew that there were still some locals against him even taking the name Goldsworth. But he'd never met his father. He didn't even know his second name. So he took Goldsworth, and he cursed everyone who tried to say he wasn't one. He had to be one. It was just him and his mother now.

"You're going to go to the station," said Lucy, writing again. "You took a dislike to the detective."

"Was it that obvious?"

"If there's one thing you got from the Goldsworths, it's the facial expressions."

He pressed his lips together in a tight smile. "Not exactly useful."

"No. It's not." She put down her pen, extending a hand, taking hold of his across the desk. She looked at it almost sadly. "There comes a time in everyone's life when things get difficult. So difficult you'd do anything to just have it easy again, even if you were bored when it was easy. Sometimes that comes in the form of a person. Mine was your father." She smiled, a sad one again. "Be careful around this detective, Ricky. Some men are just in this world to make trouble for others."

Ricky inclined his head. "You didn't like him?"

"I've been around to see many people who can't seem to help but stir trouble. He fits the description." She sat back. "There's nothing worse than a curious man, apart from a smart and curious one."

* * *

“The Goldsworths are a problem. Nothing more.”

“The Goldsworths keep the peace. They keep the peace because the only way to rule this town is with an iron fist.”

Tinsley didn’t seem altogether too impressed. He rubbed at the smudged pen on the back of his hand. “So you let them do your job for you. And in return they get..?”

Banjo shrugged his large shoulders. “Oh, you know…”

“Free reign?”

“I just-”

“A licence to do whatever they want?”

“Tinsley-”

“A free puppet in the form of a police chief?”

“You just-”

“It’s bullshit.” Tinsley finished rolling the pen around in his fingers, holding it still. He spoke matter-of-factly. “You sold your soul to the Devil. And her demon bastard. So well done.”

The chief stuck his chest out a little more, indignant. “Detective, I’ll remind you that you're new to this town and-”

“The Goldsworths couldn't possibly provide any sort of protection for this town,” said Tinsley with finality, his eyes going back to the file in front of him. The pen met paper yet again. “That’s what your job is. That’s what your job is _supposed_ to be. And the fact that you can’t fulfill that duty is for no other reason than the fact you have the charisma of a baked potato.” The pen pressed a firm full stop into the page in front of him. “Now if that’s everything, I actually have work to do.”

Banjo swallowed hard, his hands clammy by his sides. He had not been expecting this. Either this Tinsley man had been drinking, or had been up late, but he was in a foul mood. Or maybe he was always in a foul mood. Oh God, what if this was his _good_ mood? He'd allowed the man into the station to give him the small bit of information they'd gathered on the chauffeur's death, and now the man was seated at the empty reception desk which had nothing on it but an ashtray, a telephone, and one of the detective's feet. Banjo turned away and strode back into his office. He shut the door behind him. Tinsley didn’t put the pen down until he was sure the chief wasn’t coming back. Then he took the piece of paper the chief had given him from his pocket and put it onto the desk in front of him. The name and number was written in a less-than-elegant scrawl. He put the phone to his ear and wound the cord around his free hand, looping it through his long fingers as he sat back and crossed his legs. The man who answered spoke politely, light and lilting.

“Goldsworth Manor, Mayor speaking.”

“This is Tinsley. For Lucy.”

A skipped beat. “Ms Goldsworth is not in at the moment. Can I take a message, detective?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you can take a message. Tell her not to bother returning this call.”

“But she-”

He dropped the phone back onto the hook, lighting up a cigarette with self-satisfied flippancy. That should get the message through. He wasn't interested in feigned niceties with a family of drug lords. And the cheek they had to invite him up just to observe him like an unimpressive animal at the zoo. He scoffed to himself, sitting back in the chair. He continued flicking through the file, scribbling in a note here and there. There were footsteps, but he didn't look up. It was probably another cop coming in for a shift of doing literally nothing because they weren't even technically in charge of themselves.

"What are you doing."

Tinsley looked up with just his eyes. He spread his hands, his legs still crossed, feet on the desk. "Working."

"What are you doing here," repeated the man, his eyes as intense as the night before.

"I literally just said."

"You don't belong here. You're not in the force."

Tinsley shrugged, the end of his pen resting just at the corner of his mouth. "I wasn't told to leave."

"You're being told now," said Ricky, the words scraped out through gritted teeth.

Tinsley glowered at him. Neither spoke for a long moment. Then Tinsley put his pen down, sitting back, folding his arms over his chest. They didn't speak for another moment as Tinsley attempted to stare the other man down. It couldn't be done.

"The chief said to wait for him," said Tinsley into the stony silence, tilting precariously on the two back legs of his borrowed chair, one foot still against the desk. "I assumed he was in charge around here. But I'm beginning to think I was wrong."

Something clicked in Ricky's mind; it showed on his face like three dollar signs on a slot machine. "Did he offer you an office?"

Tinsley observed him closely. "No. Why would he offer me an office."

"Because he should." The man sat on the edge of the desk with a charming smile; the tiger melted to a kitten just like that. "The chauffeur's murder is a tragedy. Truly awful. I'm glad you're here to help. You should be where you can be at your most useful, right?"

Tinsley rested a finger across his mouth as he looked the man up and down. "Sweet, aren't you."

"To my friends." He placed a hand on the smooth surface of the desk for balance as he leaned in towards the detective, still with that smile that made Tinsley's heart skip. "We can be friends, right?"

"You've changed your tune." Tinsley put a cigarette between his teeth, not taking his eyes from the other man as he lit it up. Rich and beautiful. Life wasn't fair. "Did I do something right?"

Ricky smiled again, sliding off the desk to his feet in a smooth, light manner. He circled the desk to him, watching him with curious eyes, his head tilted. "You're smart, aren't you?"

"Attitude or intelligence? Because the answer is yes regardless."

"Very funny." He didn't sound like he exactly believed his own words. "I'll get you an office here. A very nice one. And-"

"In return for what?" said Tinsley, exhaling the smoke. He turned his head to look up at Ricky with a slow blink. "What would you be expecting in return?"

Ricky glared at him. "Nothing."

"Liar."

"Excuse me?"

"What you have going here is impressive, Mr Goldsworth. But it's extremely transparent." Tinsley got to his feet, one hand resting in his pocket, the other holding his cigarette down by his side. Even with such a lax stance, he towered over the other man. "So I'll be equally transparent; you can not buy me." He enunciated the words clearly. "I'm not from here, and I'm not going to stay here for longer than I have to. The whole place reeks of corruption, no matter how pleasing the perfume you spray on it." He leaned in with a secretive whisper. " _You're_ the perfume, Mr Goldsworth. You and your cronies."

Ricky considered many things in this moment. He considered taking the telephone, and wrapping the cord around the detective's neck, and strangling him to death. He considered leaning forwards just that bit more to headbutt him right on his stupid beak nose. He considered taking the cigarette and stubbing it out in the man's eye. But he didn't do any of these things. He just spoke the truth: "I wouldn't be expecting anything in return. You have my word."

"I don't know what your word means, and I don't care to find out."

Maybe the telephone cord would be the best way to go. But before Ricky could reach for it, the door to the chief's office opened, and out stepped the unmistakable roundness of Banjo McClintock. The man blanched somewhat at Ricky's face. He looked to Tinsley, who simply smiled a bright smile.

"Everything okay out here, Mr Goldsworth?"

"Everything's fine, Banjo." He stepped away from Tinsley, clapping the chief on the shoulder. An owner petting their nervous dog. "Now, I heard you're going to the scene?"

Banjo sniffed, nodding. Tinsley watched the interaction with open interest. He wandered on over, standing between the two shorter men, an inquisitive eyebrow raised.

"Well, chief. You usually bring civilians to murder scenes?"

"You shouldn't even be here," said Ricky icily before the chief could even respond by himself. "You got, what did you call it, a 'mystery caller' about a murder not involving you in anyway way, and now you're here throwing your weight around because- because why?"

Tinsley didn't react. Then he shrugged his shoulders, taking a pull on his cigarette. "I don't know. I hadn't thought about it like that."

Ricky narrowed one eye in perplexity, his mouth parted slightly. "The hell is wrong with you?"

Tinsley didn't get to reply before the man had turned away, stalking towards the door, the chief instantly following. He didn't mind that Ricky was angry. He had an adorable scowl, more of a pout than anything else. And a flower is just a flower until the mantis shows itself. Tinsley grinned as he followed.

"Well? Where's the scene?"

"Come in my car," said the chief with a bright smile. He had a friendly face, but a dopey one. His eyes were a warm brown, but droopy. Tinsley felt a bit bad for comparing him to a baked potato, but he wasn't wrong. "I'll-"

"He's coming with me." Ricky stood at his own car, arms folded across his chest. He nodded at Tinsley to come over, now.

"I'm fine. Thanks for your offer. I think." Tinsley tossed his cigarette butt aside, sitting into the chief's car and closing the door behind him with finality. "Well c'mon, chief. Let's get going."

There was a pause. Then the chief sat in behind the wheel, checked the rear view mirror with wide eyes, and started the engine with a shaking hand. "You're really not from here, aren't you not."

"Nope. Chicago." Tinsley rested his arm on the door; the window was open. He let the sea air ruffle his hair as they descended from the town towards the pier in the distance. "What's with the demon family, hm? They buy you out? Don't be ashamed. You're not the first."

"No, no, they didn't buy me out. It's just how it is around here."

Tinsley threw a sidelong glance at the sad tone. "...Sorry for snapping earlier. Bit rash of me."

The chief seemed as if he wasn't too sure how to react to an apology. He tilted his head from side to side before replying. "It's okay."

Tinsley went quiet for a while then, watching the blue sea creep closer and closer, the buildings getting smaller, but not shabbier. Nothing was shabby in the town. Not a fence went unpainted, not a garden went un-gardened. Everyone seemed comfortably off. A family sat out in their garden in the early morning sun, kids splashing in the small paddle pool, the parents sipping coffee in their shades. The sight stung his heart. He turned away.

"What's going on around here?" he asked over the whipping breeze and the whirring engine. "What do the Goldsworths do?"

The chief shrugged. Then he pointed a finger out the window, out across the bay. There were two ships anchored before the far island. "See them?"

"I saw them last night. You don't need a lighthouse with those bad boys around."

"Gambling ships, son. Panama registry." Banjo laughed at the slyness. "Don't abide by national rules. And you can't get out there without approval from one of the higher-ups."

"The Goldsworths?"

"The Goldsworths." He spoke the name with the same awe as a priest does God. "They're not bad people. No, they're not. But they make bad enemies."

Tinsley grinned at this. "Is that a warning?"

"A hell of a warning, son." He went quiet before speaking quiet. "Especially the boy. Ricky's unpredictable. Grew up with everything he ever wanted, and doesn't react well when he can't get something he wants. It's best to just give it to him, whatever it is."

Tinsley turned his head away before rolling his eyes. Fat chance. He'd met Ricky's type before. Quick to flare up, and quicker to lash out. If only he had brains. Then he'd be truly dangerous.

They reached the pier within ten minutes. Tinsley got out on his side, blinking in the morning sun. It had risen slow and soft, and fell menacingly on the hush of the pier. He went down along the stones, seeing the car still sitting on them. It had seaweed dripping off it. A nice new Buick sedan. Expensive, but in the end, it crashed just as easy as all the others.

"So the chauffeur was on this side, hm?" Tinsley ducked down to peer into the driver's seat. "And how long was it until you found him?"

"Day or so. A couple saw the car floating off and thought 'well that's not a boat'. Turned out it was occupied too." Banjo took his hat off and wiped at his forehead with a handkerchief before popping it back on. He had dark hair, but it was graying, tufts at a time. "Guy must've been shot while driving. Bullet went in the side of his head and out the other. Like my good ideas do. Haw haw."

Tinsley didn't hear him, which was unfortunate, as it was a quip he would've appreciated. He circled the car slowly, upright, as if it could pop its hood open and swallow him whole at any second. "Shot while driving? He just veered off the road then, hm?"

"Seems like it."

"Any indication as to where he went in?"

"Further down along the older pier. Bust clean through the railings."

Tinsley straightened up, seeing the wooden pier up the beach. It could've been pretty, in its day. The sea brushed at it softly as a lover. The seagulls wheeled above it, screaming and screeching. He took a morning stroll down towards it, rubbing his hands together against the sudden coolness of the breeze. In the distance, the gambling ships sat still and imposing, uninterrupted by the waves. The lights were still on in both. The party was probably still going on too.

"Are the ships popular?" asked Tinsley as he took the rotting steps up onto the pier. He stumbled against one that had fallen through already. "I - fuck - I saw a few water taxis heading out last night."

"This town doesn't have tourists because those ships take 'em," said Banjo with a nod. "The locals always complained about the damn tourists. So the Goldsworths sorted it. That one on the left is Hernando's Hideaway. That there on the right - the darker one - is the _Montepulciano_. And that smaller one attached to it is George's Café."

"Sounds pleasant."

"It ain't, son. People go out there for three reasons only; to fight, to drink, or to gamble. No matter how fine the people going look." He took off his hat again, wiped at his forehead again. "Nasty people out there. One sideways look and they'll give you a Columbian Necktie, they will."

Tinsley smiled at him before turning to the railings. They were wooden too, and absolutely cleared out in the center. "I wouldn't fit in there, no?"

"You'd fit in a box to be thrown overboard."

Tinsley observed the slimy covering on the pier, crouching down to rub a finger through it. It came off like wet paint. "Mm. The Goldsworths go there a lot?"

"Lucy used to. Ms Horsley says it's full of hooligans." The chief shrugged his round shoulders. "Ricky and Fran head out every now and then. Don't come back for days at a time, they don't."

"Are they an item?" Tinsley didn't know what made him ask the question. "Actually, don't answer. I don't want to get too involved in the drama around here. I might never leave."


	3. A Wake-up Call

Tinsley pushed open his door with one hand, the other rifling in his pocket for a lighter to spark the cigarette between his teeth. The pier had come up with some... questionable results. Not that he'd voiced them aloud. He didn't have a death wish, although many would consider stepping into this town as a death wish in itself. He paused at the rare sight of his apartment not being entirely empty. The lamp was on in the corner of the room, the figure that waited alone was shrouded in darkness. But it was still unmistakable.

“Ah. Hello.”

The man moved lazily, yet with an edge, like a leopard with a bad hangover. “Detective.”

 _What an odd tone_. Tinsley thought twice about shutting the door behind him. He let the handle slip from his fingers. It shut with a low thud. He put the latch off. “...Are you lost?"

Ricky was standing by the bookshelf, hands in his pockets. He watched him with hard black eyes. “You're scared."

Tinsley raised an eyebrow. “You are a stranger in my apartment.”

“I'm not here to hurt you.”

“Alright.”

Ricky stayed where he was. His eyes didn't leave Tinsley's, even as the taller man circled towards the kitchen, like a zookeeper stuck in a cage with a tiger. Tinsley moved slowly, warily. What he needed was a distraction, a nice juicy steak for this tiger to sink his teeth into. It was either that or his throat.

“...I'm sorry about the chauffeur. I didn't get to-”

“I'm not here about the chauffeur. He didn't mean shit to me.”

Tinsley stayed a safe distance, lingering beside his half-open kitchen door. An escape route. Or an invitation. He wasn't quite sure yet. “I'm a busy man, Mr Goldsworth. I don't have time for guessing games, although I wish I did.”

“Mr Goldsworth.” Ricky repeated the name dryly, wandering towards him, hands in his pockets, down at his tilted hips. “You can call me Ricky.”

“Sure.”

“And I can call you..?”

“Tinsley, Mr Goldsworth.”

Ricky inclined his head at this, his unblinking eyes stuck to Tinsley's. “Right. I see. No familiarity.”

“Afraid not.” Tinsley's hand slipped into the gap of the door, wondering exactly how much closer the man was going to come. “But if you're here from a professional angle, I'm your guy.”

“Mm.” Ricky sauntered to a halt, his head tilted, emphasizing the sharp line of his jaw. Tinsley swallowed. “I think you're my guy because I want you to be my guy, detective.”

Tinsley rested back against the wall, away from the hot force of the shorter man’s proximity. He let out a quiet breath. “If you could elaborate.”

“I could.” A nod towards the door. “In there. And I've been told I'm a lot friendlier with a drink in my hand.”

Tinsley didn't move for a moment. Then he slipped off his coat, chucking it onto the couch before pushing open the door with a flippant brush of his hand. He nodded into the kitchen, and the single table that stood against the wall. “How could I refuse such an offer.”

Ricky gave him a wry look as he passed. “With a chest full of lead.”

“Charming.”

Tinsley hesitated before following him in. It was a humble kitchen; a table, three chairs, a few windows side-by-side above the long counter that held a kettle, a sink, and a stove. Ricky made himself at home instantly, flicking on the light before opening up the tin of cigarettes on the table and helping himself. He turned on his heel, a graceful move, cigarette perched between his lips. What lips they were. What a face in general. Tinsley offered his lighter, sparking it up himself once the man didn't move to take it. The flame had nothing on Ricky's eyes. Tinsley snapped the light shut.

“Well, Mr Goldsworth.” He watched as the man meandered around the room, as curious as a kitten. A hand drifted out every few seconds to pick up a photo, to flip through a notebook, to tilt a book out of its place on a shelf before letting it drop back in again. The previous owners had been avid readers, it seemed. Lucky Tinsley was too. “Why am I your guy, hm?”

Ricky didn't respond for a moment, his back to Tinsley. One hand was still in his pocket, the other holding the cigarette down at his waist. He eventually turned. He took his sweet time. It appeared no one else's time mattered to him.

“I don't like cops, detective. I'd go as far as to say I hate them.” He came closer, a slight smile on his face. It wasn't a kind one. It was one that promised pleasure for only one person in the room. “But I know a miscreant when I see one.”

“A miscreant.” Tinsley sat on the edge of the table, one leg swinging casually, the other set on the floor. “I'll admit, I haven't had that one thrown at me.”

“You don't deny it?”

Tinsley shrugged, a slow blink accompanying the gesture. “No comment.”

Ricky hummed his disapproval. “Right. Well, you're lucky I don't feel like getting my hands dirty.”

He gave a sharp whistle, as a master does their dog. The sound of slamming car doors came from outside, hurried, eager. Tinsley calmly leaned back, taking out the handgun from the holster under his arm. He had it ready the second the two men tumbled in the door, holding it with the same familiarity one holds their fork at dinner. Ricky's eyebrows flickered up, just for a second. He didn't tell the men to back off, so they didn't.

“Alright.” Tinsley altered his aim by a foot, his hand swinging around to point the barrel at Ricky. “Yeah. I thought so.”

The two men had frozen, eyes stuck to Ricky, who was watching Tinsley with open interest. He closed the space between them with a lack of fear that screamed experience; this man had been at both ends of a gun, multiple times. He smiled right up the barrel. Tinsley appreciated the sight.

“Don't threaten me,” he said, raising a finger to push the barrel aside. “It's no fun if you don't mean it.”

“And how do you know I don't?”

“Because I have something you want.”

“That would give me even more incentive, right?”

“Wrong.” Another sly smile. “I guarantee that what you want would be infinitely more satisfying if I was alive.”

Tinsley watched him from under heavy lids. “Right.”

Ricky's hand wrapped around the gun, his other around Tinsley's wrist. He eased the gun out of the detective's long fingers. “It's just protocol. I won't hurt you.” An unspoken  _yet_.

Tinsley didn't reply, his curious gaze still stuck to the man's face. He got to his feet, arms half-heartedly raised as the two men frisked him with robotic movements. Ricky was back at the kitchen door, leaning against it, regarding Tinsley through a haze of smoke. Tinsley's gun peeked out from his belt. He waited until the two men had left before speaking.

“What do you think of me, detective?”

Tinsley tilted his head at this, still standing in the open, feeling just a bit vulnerable without his gun. The holster still hung around his shoulders, strangely light. “Is that a trick question?”

“No. So tell me the truth.” He tapped the ash off his cigarette. “Don't fuck me around here, alright?”

“Alright.” Tinsley was silent for a minute. He reached behind him, the tin scraping as he opened it to retrieve a cigarette of his own. He lit it up, snapping the lighter shut. Then he spoke. “I think you're a bad person, Mr Goldsworth. Not the sort I usually associate with.”

“Can't flaunt your insubordination in front of insubordinates, hm?”

Tinsley didn't bite. He just nibbled. “So someone's been gossiping.”

“As always.” Ricky straightened up off the bookcase, still with that grin that had Tinsley's shoulders tense. “You don't strike me as a rebellious man. So why does your reputation precede you, hm?”

“I'm meant to be the detective here, right? Or is that what you do?” Tinsley let a small smile onto his face. “Do I have a rival in my midst?”

Ricky shook his head. “No. I wouldn't be caught dead.” He leaned around him to place his cigarette in the carved dip in the ashtray, his shoulder brushing the taller man's chest. “But being a private detective must be dangerous, right?”

Tinsley didn't look him in the eye. He couldn't. At this proximity, there was a risk of being vaporized under the intensity of that gaze. “A bit. Nothing I can't handle.”

“This is going to be different. I can guarantee you that.” Ricky gave his nose a distracted rub, drawing Tinsley's attention to the light scar across the bridge. There was another one running from the end of his brow to below his eye, a white wisp. “You'll need help.”

Tinsley tilted his chin up at this, looking down his pointy nose at the offer. “As flattered as I am, I'm going to have to decline.”

A skipped beat. “And why's that.”

“I’m a bit different to my counterparts around the country, I’ll admit. I don’t get involved with...” He shrugged, leaning back against the table, legs crossed at the ankles. “Well, your type, I suppose.”

Ricky let the silence drag out. He didn’t take his eyes from the other man’s. Tinsley didn’t look away either. He just brought his cigarette to his mouth and took a leisurely drag, one arm folded across his chest, resting on the opposite elbow. After a minute’s silence, he raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“Well, Mr Goldsworth. If that’s everything, I have work to do.” He gave his nails a quick once-over, as they're taught in the movies. "This case isn't my only one."

“Okay. Sure. I’ll just leave then.” Ricky smiled, giving the taller man’s arm a squeeze. Not exactly a comforting one. “No problem.”

Tinsley didn't move an inch. “Alright.”

“Alright.” Ricky's eyes drifted to the table, his hand doing similar. He picked up an open envelope, taking out a page. It was scrawled in black ink. “This for a case or something, hm?”

“Yes.”

“Great.”

He slipped his hand into his pocket, taking out a switchblade, flicking it open with an automatic movement, and his other hand flashed out simultaneously to take hold of Tinsley’s tie and yank him down so hard the man almost dashed his head off the table. Tinsley’s hands grabbed the edge, his eyes wide as the blade went through his tie and the letter with one hard stab, splintering the wood. Ricky’s fingers remained around the handle, knuckles white with the force.

“Look at it,” snarled Ricky, bringing his face close to the side of Tinsley’s. His words were hot against his ear. Tinsley let out a sharp breath. “ _Look_ at it. Do you really think whatever case this is is worth the pain I will put you through in the next ten seconds if you don’t do exactly what I say?”

Tinsley didn’t look away from the blade. He could almost see his reflection in its sharp edge. He couldn’t breathe.

“Answer me!” Ricky spat the words, savage. “Where’s your attitude now, huh?”

Tinsley swallowed hard, closing his eyes as he felt the hand grab the back of his neck, shoving him closer to the letter with enough force for the table to rattle. " _Fine_. Fine. I’ll do it.”

There was a pause at the level response. Then Ricky wrenched the knife from the desk, flicking it closed and returning it to his pocket. He smiled down at Tinsley, who was still bent against the desk, although not for the reason that he would’ve preferred.

“You're going to have to prioritize here, detective.” Ricky rubbed his thumb off his index finger, watching the movement with a lowered gaze. “Your cases are all equally important to you, I get that. But what matters from here on out is what’s important to me.”

Tinsley straightened up stiffly, smoothing down his stabbed tie, altogether unimpressed. “You just threatened me.”

“Yes. I did.”

“Well if you’re not persuasive enough to get people to do what you want without drawing a knife on them, I don’t think you’ll be of much use to me in return.” He gave him a sidelong look, angled down at him. “I prefer my men with a bit of class.”

“I don’t care what you prefer, detective.” He reached over to retrieve his cigarette from the ashtray. He checked his watch with vague interest. “I want that to be clear right from the start.”

Tinsley moved around to the chair on the opposite side, sitting down, resting his elbows on the table. He lit up a replacement cigarette. It rested between the fingers of his left hand. “Sit down, please, Mr Goldsworth.”

The man stood side-on, smiling at him. “No.”

“I'd like to talk.”

“There's nothing to talk about, detective.” He moved towards the table, placing his hand lightly on the surface as he leaned forwards, Tinsley resting back in his chair simultaneously. “You either get rid of your other cases, or I'll get rid of you. Clear?”

Tinsley folded his arms across his chest, legs crossed. “Crystal.”

“So do that,” said Ricky, as if he was explaining basic math to a five-year-old. His fingers lightly tapped the table with each word. “And I'm sure we'll get along just great. Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Come to the house when you're done.”

Tinsley didn't reply. Ricky didn't seem like he was looking for one anyway. He simply turned away, strolling back across the kitchen to the door. He half-opened it, a hand resting against the side. He threw a look back over his shoulder, looking Tinsley over like he was just a photograph. Tinsley raised his head expectantly, still sitting with his arms folded and legs crossed, entirely closed off.  

“I like you, detective. You know when to back down.”

“Mm.”

“And you know when to shut up.” A dry smile. “Not many men around like that.”

"You just don't know me yet."

"I don't think I want to."

And with that pleasant sentence, Ricky Goldsworth left as suddenly as he'd arrived. Tinsley didn't move, not until he heard a car door slam and an engine rev up and the same engine recede into the evening. Then he hurried into the sitting room, going to the phone on the wall. He dialed the number quick.

"Hullo, Chief Inspector McClintock," came the cheery tone.

"It's Tinsley."

"Tinsley? Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Just had an unexpected visitor, that's all. Got me a bit shook up." He pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning against the wall. The plaster was cold against his arm. "Uh, anyway, yeah. Any sign of the girlfriend?"

"On her way back to shore soon, Tinsley. Lucky she works nights, so she's wide awake and happy to talk."

"Yeah. Yeah, wish I could say the same."

A pause. "Are you alright, sonny?"

Tinsley bit on his lip, his eyes raising to look at the ceiling, like he was expecting permission from Above to say the question in his mind. "...Remember I asked you earlier about Ricky Goldsworth?"

The chief's voice had all its bubbles popped. "I remember."

"And you're sure he doesn't have a criminal record?"

"He's clean as a whistle, son. Goodnight."

Tinsley blinked as the monotonous tone of a slammed-down phone hit him. He put his own phone back on its hook with delicacy. The chauffeur's girlfriend worked on one of the Goldsworth's gambling ships as a waitress, it seemed. Which wasn't a good start. She was probably already bought five times over by Lucy Goldsworth and her damned son. But maybe it was worth a try. Or maybe it was as futile as trying to pick a lock with a matchstick.

* * *

"So you were his girlfriend."

"I was." She spoke airily, but only because there was nothing in her head. Her eyes had the same glazed look as a stoner, yet she didn't seem to be one. "I met him when I was doin' a shift on the  _Monty_."

Tinsley sat back, legs crossed. One hand rested on the blotter on the desk, a small page trapped below his wrist and a pen between two fingers where a cigarette should've been. He'd been given an office, but not a large one. Ricky must've been offended.

"The  _Monty_? As in that gambling ship."

"No gamblin', honey. Just drinkin'. I serve the drinks, and that's that."

Tinsley gave her a wry look, but she didn't seem to notice. "Sure."

"You look like a gamblin' man." She popped her gum; it was as pale as her platinum hair. Her pink lips stood out a mile. "You a risk-taker, honey?"

He shrugged, spinning back-and-forth on his chair as he considered it. "I guess. But I don't approve of gambling."

"Ain't no gamblin'."

"As you said." He looked her over again; she wore a pair of shorts that hugged her waist and a pink-and-white gingham top that just about made her decent. She was pretty, but she was mean. He could see it in the lines of her mouth. "Did your boyfriend have anybody who didn't like him?"

She shrugged. "Not that I was knowin'. Never liked who he was workin' for. Them Goldsworths would walk all over you and fashion you into a rug once you got flat enough. 'Specially the boy."

"So I've heard."

"But he's a fine-lookin' bastard, ain't he?"

"So I've seen."

"Maybe I was just jealous I weren't his chauffeur." She cackled at her own mediocre joke. She went quiet at the unimpressed look on Tinsley's face. "That's a look and a half, honey. And you ain't too bad yourself."

He traced a circle on the paper, slow and smooth. His lowered gaze followed it. "Don't go comparing me to Ricky Goldsworth, now. He's in a league of his own."

"You're cute."

"There's a difference between 'cute' and what Ricky Goldsworth is." He dropped the pen, sitting forwards to try and focus his wandering mind. "Now, not to sound too harsh, but would anyone have wanted your boyfriend dead?"

She paused, her blank eyes looking up at nothing. Then she shrugged again. "Dunno. Anyone workin' for that lot has a target on their head. The Goldsworths have enemies, honey. Wouldn't be able to count 'em even if you had all the fingers in the world."

Tinsley watched her closely now; her flippancy didn't exactly scream _true love_. "Right. Right, I'm just gonna ask this now; are you going to openly cooperate with me on this?"

"I don't be thinkin' so." Another pop of her damned gum. "You gotta be careful on this one, detective. You surrounded yourself with enemies the second you stepped into this town. That's just how it is."

"If only I still had my other cases to distract me," muttered Tinsley to himself, picking the pen back up and scratching away at the small piece of paper under his hand. His clients - now ex-clients - had exploded that morning; each phone call had been nuclear. "Hey, have you ever been called a 'useless rangy noodle'? Because I have."

She thought about it. "Nah."

"Mm." He pushed his chair in small movements from side to side, legs crossed. Then he dropped the pen, and cupped his chin in his hand. "Tell me what you know about Ricky Goldsworth. He's an intriguing individual."

"Nuh-uh. You won't be gettin' no smack-talk from me." She stood up, hands on her hips. "Not about him. I value my teeth being in my mouth, honey. Most people do."

"So there's no one." Tinsley spread his hands, spinning to a halt on his chair. "There's not one person in this town who will tell me about Ricky fucking Goldsworth."

"His mama." She nodded firmly as a full stop. Then she picked up her bag, and left.

"His mama," muttered Tinsley, an eyebrow arched. Well, he _had_ been invited up to the house, in the same manner as a goat was invited to eat a carrot so that its neck was stretched out to be sliced.


	4. Consider This A Warning

The receptionist poked her head in the door; she looked excited, face flushed. "Detective, Mr Goldsworth is here for you."

He went to tell her he was busy. She stepped aside and in he came anyway. Tinsley felt his shoulders tense instantly. He sat forwards, tapping the ash from his cigarette into the black ashtray. Ricky stood on the opposite side of the desk, hands in his pockets, and a charming smile on his face. Tinsley glowered at him. Neither spoke for a long moment.

“Mr Goldsworth.”

“Detective.” The man came closer, observing the desk for a moment. His dark lashes cuddled his cheeks. Then he raised them again in a surprisingly submissive fashion. But Tinsley knew this trick. It was supposed to make him roll onto his back with all four paws in the air. “I’m glad you took the office.”

He answered shortly. “There’s none in my apartment.”

“No?”

“Nope. Too small. One bedroom.” He didn’t know why he was still talking, so he shut up.

“One bedroom,” said Ricky thoughtfully, his gaze drifting up and to the side. “Mm. I’ve heard of such things.”

 _So you can laugh after all_. “I don’t know if this will be a surprise to you, but I was actually looking to see your mother. Not you.”

“I came to bring you up. And to apologize, detective.” Ricky let a hand drift out, picking up the nameplate off the desk. It didn’t have Tinsley’s name. It was the name of whoever used to sit in the office. Tinsley didn't know where the owner of the name now was. He watched as Ricky tilted it in the low light, looking down his nose at it. “For my behavior yesterday.”

“Then apologize.” Tinsley put his cigarette back into his mouth, speaking around it as he went back to work. “And leave. I’ll make my own way up.”

“I’m extending an olive branch to you here, detective. I’d advise you don’t burn it.”

“Oh, so mommy scolded you and you’ve come to give your most sincere apologies,” said Tinsley wryly, giving him an equally wry look before going back to the notes. “That’s very sweet. But unfortunately, I don't have time right now. I wasn’t born into a rich family, so I have an actual job, you see.”

Ricky narrowed his eyes at him, crossing to the window. He leaned forwards to get a better look out, curious. “Sometimes I think I’d prefer an actual job.”

“You wouldn’t.” Tinsley looked him over, sidelong. “You’re not made for grit, sweat and blood, Mr Goldsworth.”

“You act like you know me.”

“I know your type.” Tinsley sat back, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, fingers interlocked. “I’ve met my fair share of _femmes fatales,_  and I know they’re not always _femmes._  But they are always neat and pretty and rich and pretty. And I know I said pretty twice. I meant to.” He smiled at him, a small, sly one. “And in your case, I’d say it again.”

Ricky inclined his head at this, as if he was even surprised. “Charmer.”

Tinsley shrugged. “Credit where credit is due. That’s all.”

“Mm.” Ricky slipped his hands into his pockets, down at his tilted hips. “And what about your type, detective? Black coffee, straight whiskey, Casanova. You’re as 2D as they come.”

“So you came here to try - and fail - to insult me. That’s becoming a habit of yours, isn’t it.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Ah, so you have an ulterior motive. Don’t fulfill your stereotype too eagerly, now.” He heard the sharp exhale through gritted teeth. He smiled at him. “But I’m all ears.”

Ricky came back over to the desk, standing right beside it, hands in his pockets. He looked down his nose at the detective. Tinsley sat further back with a quiet breath, his smile slipping slightly. His fingers fidgeted, so he folded his arms to keep them still. He arched an eyebrow, lifting his chin. _Talk, you son of a bitch._ Ricky didn’t talk. He got closer, sitting back on the desk. He finally took his hand from his pocket, but it wasn’t holding a gun. It just held cigarettes. He shook one loose, taking it out with his lips. Then he said: “There’s rules.”

“Interesting.”

“I’ll tell you once. And once only.” He moved forwards, and came close. Too close. He stood over one of Tinsley’s legs, as if he didn’t notice the flush that skimmed across the detective’s face. He raised his cigarette. “Do you have a light?”

Tinsley nodded in silence, his knee bouncing rapidly, reflexively. He went to take the lighter from his pocket, but Ricky bet him to it. “I’ll get it. I said-”

He inhaled deeply through his nose, gripping the arms of his chair as tightly as he was holding onto his sanity as Ricky simply slipped a hand into the detective’s pocket with a friendly smile. _Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck._  He let the breath out shakily, his hands sliding forwards on the arms of the chair as Ricky straightened up and lit his cigarette absent-mindedly. Tinsley’s knee was bouncing wildly, his heart skipping beats in his chest.

“You’re a stranger here,” said Ricky, snapping the lighter shut before chucking it onto the desk behind him. “I understand that. But I won’t take it as an excuse for you walking around here like you own the place.”

“Why? Because your family owns everyone in this town already?”

“Precisely,” said Ricky, a hard glint in his eyes. “You’re a - oh, how do I put this nicely - you’re a damn tumor, detective. Don’t make me cut you out.”

Tinsley didn’t reply, biting on his thumbnail as he looked up at him with serious eyes. God, the man was beautiful, in a savage kind of way. His big dark eyes flashed dangerously as he spoke, and his hands looked strong but soft. His dark hair was ruffled, but he had the looks to carry it off. He wore a black shirt with a small pattern running over it in a different color; yellow, or maybe gold. It suited him as stripes suit a tiger. Tinsley folded one arm across his chest, still biting at his thumbnail as he focused hard on not looking away from Ricky’s face to the rest of the man. He knew it probably looked like he was staring, but some things were worth a stare.

“-and you- Are you even listening to me?” Ricky glared down at him, finally noticing that there wasn’t any listening occuring in the slightest. “You’re not listening. For God’s sake.”

Tinsley left his thumb alone, turning his head aside to scowl at the floor. He rubbed the same hand across his mouth as he attempted to get his thoughts back on track. His fingers curled into a fist against his mouth, his nose pressed against his knuckles so that the pointy end was squashed aside. He looked back up at Ricky in silence. Then he took his hand away and said: “Yeah, my bad.”

“You’re a goddamn son of a bitch.”

“Sorry.” He didn’t sound too sorry. He got to his feet, checking his pockets for his wallet and keys. “Right, since you so kindly came by to collect me, I guess I’ll ride with you.” He smiled, nodding towards the door. “Well, go on. Lead the way.”

* * *

“Well, detective. What would you like to see me about.” Lucy Goldsworth sat at her desk, her pen scratching away as she spoke. She hadn’t looked at him once since he came in. “I understand you’re a busy man, and I’m a busy woman. Today, I don’t have time for chat.”

Tinsley sat across from her. He glanced at the Mayor, who lingered by the door, omnipresent. The tall gray figure of Holly Horsley stood at the window like a stone statue. He said: “Can we talk in private?”

“This is private, detective.”

“It’s really not, though.”

She still didn’t look up. She seemed quite preoccupied with the blue journal in front of her. “You can start by telling me what you want to talk about. Then I'll decide how we proceed, _¿bueno?"_

"Uh, yeah. Bueno." He threw a last look at the door, just to check that there wasn't a face glaring in. "It's about your son."

"My one and only son." She put down the pen at last, giving him a level look. "What about him?"

Tinsley bit his lip. Then he released it. "Okay. Okay, look, I'm not an idiot. I know that your family have the force here by the balls, so I know there's no point trying to get them to come up here and take your son away for questioning. But I'm here to ask you - face to face - if I can ask your son a few questions about the chauffeur's death."

Lucy didn't react at all but to incline her head, the silver drops of her earrings swinging. "Why would he have anything to do with the chauffeur's death?"

"...It's a hunch. I'd ask you, but you're busy. Your son, however, seems to spend his time pulling wings off flies. The slower the better." He raised his eyebrows. "I'm here to ask for your permission. Which is something I don't make a habit of doing. But you seem respectable."

She lifted her chin slightly, but she didn't seem too impressed. "You talk a lot."

"Well no one else in this town seems to."

Lucy nodded slowly, sitting back, her polished fingers interlocked. She nodded at Horsley. " _Esta bien_."

Holly left, smoothing down her white blouse as she did so. She gave Tinsley a sidelong look as she passed. He returned it directly. The Mayor opened the door for Holly, then stepped through himself, and closed it behind him. Every single one of his movements seemed to be measured to the last centimeter; the Mayor did not move further than was exactly required. When the silence had settled, Lucy got to her feet. She wore black slacks and a black blouse with a glittering diamond necklace around the collar, in lieu of a crown on her head.

"Would you like a drink?"

Tinsley nodded. He accepted the drink with another nod. He didn't sip until she had. Lucy took out a French enamel cigarette case. In it were gold-tipped cigarillos.

"Smoke?"

"I have my own."

Lucy settled once she'd lit her cigarillo. She observed the smoke with wise eyes. "I know what Ricky is like. He's done some things that have... shocked me." She took another drag, turning to look at the detective. "Do you think I'm easily shocked, detective?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Well he's done some things that have shocked me," she repeated quietly. "He has a lot more of his father in him than I'd care to admit."

"Where is his father?"

She looked at him for a long moment. "Gone."

"Gone?"

"Gone away." She tapped her cigarette into the glass ashtray, crossing her legs. She was short. Ricky must've got that from her. "I can't let you talk to Ricky, detective. For your own safety."

"Don't worry about that old thing."

She smiled a tired smile. "You're funny."

Tinsley smiled back. Then he let it drop. He glanced at the door again before speaking. "He came to my apartment yesterday and threatened me with a knife."

She didn't seem surprised. She just shrugged. "You're lucky you're still here."

He was getting nowhere. He took a mouthful of his drink; a fine, fine whiskey from a fine, fine woman. If she was twenty years younger he probably would've made a move. Well, that, and if she wasn't a criminal.

"So you're saying that if I tried to talk to Ricky, he'd kill me."

"He'd make you regret opening your mouth, detective. I wouldn't specifically say he'd kill you."

"Did he kill the chauffeur?"

She caught the curveball without even flinching. "No."

Tinsley ran a finger around the rim of his glass as he tried to detect a hint of a lie on her face. "Was he involved at all?"

"It's dangerous to talk to Ricky, detective," she said very coldly. "But he's not the only one to be wary of. Understand?"

He stared at her. Then he nodded, and set down his almost-empty glass. "Right. I understand."

"And I wouldn't-" Her voice ground to a halt, and she coughed. Then she coughed again, leaning forwards to clutch her chest.

"Are you okay?" Tinsley got to his feet, his eyes wide as she continued trying her best to hack up a lung. "Do you need- Should I-"

She waved a vague hand, her head ducked, a hand over her mouth as she spluttered. "N-No, no, I'm-" Pause for cough. "I'm fine. I'm fine. I am." She turned further away, wiping at her watery eyes. She stared at her hands for a moment; the speckles of blood were smeared. She wiped them on her blouse. Then she turned back around. "Nasty cold."

He stared at her in silence, and in that second she knew that he knew. His eyes were round, his brows drawn together, his lips parted slightly. She cleared her painful throat one last time before continuing. 

"I know you think you know what you're doing. But Ricky is volatile, detective."

"So I've heard."

She fixed him with a quiet-eyed stare. "You're going to talk to him anyway, aren't you."

"The idea's in my head, Ms Goldsworth. So most likely yes."

She rolled her eyes, going back to her journal, dipping her pen in a pot of black ink. "Be it on your head, detective. Be it on your head."

He didn't even make it out the main door before he was essentially caught by the scruff. Ricky stood at the car with a friendly smile. It suited him deceivingly well. Tinsley arched an eyebrow.

"So you're the chauffeur now, are you?"

"Don't you want me to be?"

Tinsley looked him up and down, a frown flickering across his features at the surprisingly coquettish smile on the other man's face. "Well would I need to pay you?"

"Your delightful company would be enough."

Tinsley reluctantly sat into the passenger seat. Ricky got in the driver's. He started the engine. He didn't speak until they'd left the grounds. Then he said, in a very serious voice indeed: "What did you want to talk to my mom about."

"If I wanted to tell you, I would." Tinsley lifted his hat off his head to run a hand through his hair before setting it back down. "You don't quite frighten me yet."

"I see." Ricky smiled at him, a devilish grin. “Let's take a detour.”

“Or we could… not.”

His suggestion was ignored just as the turn towards the town was. Ricky drove along, fingers tapping out a jaunty rhythm as he hummed to the song on the radio. Tinsley sat still and stared straight ahead; the gray road wound through the gray mist. Ricky sang along to _A Wink And A Smile_. Tinsley never hated the song more.

“You ever wonder how I got that office for you?” said Ricky over the music, his eyes still watching the road. The engine purred. “Offices don't just become free, you know.”

“I know.”

Ricky threw him a sidelong smirk, as malicious as the first one. “You've gone quiet. I like you quiet.”

“I'd best start chatting again then.”

“You don't want me to like you?”

“I want us to have a mutual understanding here,” said Tinsley coolly. “We're not friends. And we're not going to be friends.”

Ricky's smile didn't drop. It didn't even flicker. “I think you should have a chat with the previous owner of the office you're in.”

“Then you should turn back.”

“No.” He said the word softly, so softly, as softly as a hunting tiger's footfall. “No, he doesn't live in the town.”

Tinsley spared a glance out the side window. The white fields stretched out down the hill to the slatey sea. He looked over his shoulder. The road was empty. He looked back at Ricky, at those perfect features, so calm it was terrifying.

“How far away does he live?”

“Not too far.”

Ricky didn't speak for the next ten minutes. He pulled up to the cemetery with his face still cool and steady. He cut the engine. The silence was as oppressive as the fog outside, like a weighted blanket, but not half as warm. Tinsley stared at the rusty iron bars through the windscreen. Maybe if he stayed still enough, Ricky would just turn the car around, and leave.

“Get out.”

Tinsley bit his lip hard at the order. He reached to the door with his left hand, letting his right slip up to flick the safety off on his gun. He stepped out into the icy air, sucking it in through his teeth. He closed his door. He heard Ricky's one echo it. The gravel crunched under their feet as they circled to meet at the bonnet. Ricky smiled over the dark collar of his coat. Tinsley, for once, didn't return it.

“You want to talk to Henry.”

Tinsley went to swallow, stopping himself. “Henry?”

“The previous owner of your office.” Ricky nodded towards the gates, his gaze unblinking. “Go ahead.”

Tinsley's breath mixed with the mist. He strode towards the gates, slowing in front of them. He heard Ricky stop behind him.

“They're closed.”

“Then open them.”

Tinsley looked over his shoulder at him. “I don't trespass.”

“It's my family's land. Open them.”

Tinsley gritted his teeth hard. Then he took hold of the rusted gate, the iron crumbling under his fingers. He pulled it open rather stiffly; the metal groaned morbidly. Tinsley stepped through. The graves were barely visible through the weeds and ivy and wildflowers. It was eerily beautiful. A grand Romanesque building sat down the gravel path, a pale monster, restrained only by the dark fingers of ivy holding it in place. Ricky's quiet voice floated through the air, light as the mist.

“Fifth one on the right.”

Tinsley didn't look at him. He kept his gaze lowered, studying the ground, passing the grave slabs. One… two… three… four… He hesitated, hands shoved into his coat pockets. Then he lifted his gaze to the name on the fifth gravestone. Henry P. Reilly. Tinsley stared at it for a long moment. Ricky hadn't been lying; it was the same name as on the nameplate on his desk.

“Any questions in particular you'd like to ask him?”

Tinsley closed his eyes at the voice. He didn't turn to look, but he could feel the heat off the man's body beside him. “No. I think I get the message.”

“Great. You're learning.” Ricky stepped right onto the grave slab; still, he wasn't as tall as Tinsley. He didn't seem to care. “He's been under the ground for about four years now. A year for each day of trouble he cost me. You see, I count, detective. I keep tabs. Whether or not I want to.”

Tinsley didn't look away, watching him with a level-eyed stare.

“But what do you want, Tinsley?” He searched his eyes closely, his chin raised. “Do you want to end up like Henry? Or do you want to leave and get on with your life?”

“It doesn't matter what I do, Mr Goldsworth. I'll end up in a grave anyway.” He paused before finishing. “As will you.”

To his surprise, Ricky didn't lash out. He just grinned. “No, I won't. You see that?”

Tinsley let his gaze flicker to the pale building. “Yeah.”

“That's my family's mausoleum, detective. I'll be in there when I die.”

“Are you sure?”

Ricky inclined his head, his smile slipping slightly. “Yes.”

“I wouldn't be so sure.” Tinsley spoke distractedly, busy lighting a cigarette behind a cupped hand. “Because you're not really a Goldsworth, are you?”

Ricky narrowed his eyes at him. “I am.”

“But you took your mother's name,” said Tinsley simply, looking at him from under his lashes. The smoke melted into the air above them. “Her maiden name. Bit unorthodox. But then again, I doubt you even know your father's first name, nevermind his last one.”

Ricky seemed stunned, his jaw set, eyes hard and unwavering. “Excuse me?”

“You're a bastard, Ricky. A fatherless child. Your mother told me.”

“I don't need a father. And it's none of your damn business.”

“I know. Which is reason enough for me to get involved, really.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But your real name isn't Ricky Goldsworth. It's something else. Not that anyone knows but your mother.”

“Shut up.”

“Have you ever asked her?”

“I said shut up.”

“I could probably find out for you.” Tinsley looked him over with an arched eyebrow. “I'd say he was a pretty boy your mom let bang her one lonely night, and nine months later, she paid the price.”

When Tinsley woke up, it was dark. The air had cleared, and far above were scattered stars. They seemed to spin. He blinked slowly, groggily. He felt his sore face; his beard was caked with crusted blood. His fingertips followed it to his nose, his mouth. Fuck, he'd been given one hell of a clatter. He pushed himself into a sitting position, his head ringing, protesting violently. The graves loomed around him, but he didn't care. He was never one to believe in ghosts. There were scarier monsters out there, like corrupt cops, and bought townsfolk, and the Goldsworths of the world. So he got to his feet with a grumble, located his hat, and started the long trek back to town.


	5. Stepping On The Devil's Tail

She found him within minutes, and surprisingly, she found him alive. He was simply walking along the road towards town, hands in his pockets, his tall frame black against the late night sea mist. He was resilient, she’d give him that. He was resilient, and confident, and a masterful man, despite his outwards appearance of a dithering gentle giant. She’d noticed it the first time she met him, when he came to the house the first evening. He was happy-go-lucky, until he realized he was being sized up, and the fire that had jumped into his eyes had surprised her. She pulled over, the window rolled down.

“Want a lift?”

The detective stared at her for a moment, an eyebrow arched. He leaned forwards to check the back seat. She didn’t have to guess for who. Then he sniffed. “Yeah, I guess. Walk’s a bit longer than I thought it would be.”

He spoke a bit thickly, but she knew why. Ricky had come into the house like a bull, rubbing his hand and muttering about ‘that lanky bastard’. And as the detective sat into the car, she saw the blood from his nose, and the black eyes starting to form. She whistled through her teeth.

“He gave you a bump, huh?”

“A bump.” He laughed, peering in the side mirror. He poked at his face. “Yeah, hell of a bump.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know when to shut up.” He looked at her as she swept the car in a neat U-turn. “Fran, isn’t it?”

“Francesca Norris.” She smiled at him; she didn’t mind him. He seemed harmless enough, as long as he was focused on something harmless. “C.C. Tinsley?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t elaborate. “Why’d you come to get me?”

“I honestly thought I’d be collecting a dead body,” she replied simply, the headlights cutting through the dark, illuminating the crumbling cobbled walls. They were growing neater, the closer they got to town. “Why’d he knock you one?”

“I mentioned his dad.”

“You mentioned him?” she said dubiously. Ricky was volatile, but he wouldn’t usually flip out so suddenly.

“I was a bit of a jerk. I’ll admit it.” Tinsley sniffed again, picking at the dried blood in his beard with a disgusted frown. “But he wasn’t being too nice either.”

"Yes. Niceness isn't his forté."

Tinsley went quiet, but his fingers were fidgeting on his lap. He lit up a cigarette to distract them. Then he said: "What's the story with his father?"

Fran told the truth. "I don't know."

He didn't seem too satisfied. "No one knows, do they."

"The Mayor knows. Well, the butler. But good luck getting anything secret out of him. He's a human safe, and only Lucy holds the key."

"We all need a Mayor in our lives, don't we."

She hummed her agreement. After a few minutes, she mentioned the local paper, and the lead editor. A Jesse Fear. "He knows a lot. He's old now, but he's been around for the most of it."

"Jesse Fear." He blew the cigarette smoke out the gap in the window, his gaze distant. "Isn't the local paper bought? I'd be surprised if it wasn't."

"Oh, it's bought."

"Then why tell me?"

She shrugged, taking the turn into town, instead of continuing onto the manse. "You're persuasive. And I'll be damned if I'm not as interested in what happened to Ricky's father as you are."

"I'm not really interested. Not truly." He flicked the cigarette out the window, cupping his chin in his hand as he continued staring out. "Just nosy. What I'm interested in is the chauffeur."

Fran shrugged her shoulders. "Can't help you there, babes." She went quiet again. "Or you could try the Minister. He's answerable to only God, I believe. And Lucy is a very devote woman too. I don't think she's ever tried to corrupt him."

"Ministers and priests and reverends," said Tinsley with a sneer. "A bunch of liars and thieves. What does Mr Goldsworth think of the good Lord above?"

Fran laughed. "Oh, he believes, but I don't think he likes him very much."

"Well, maybe there's some sense in his head after all."

"I think he proved that when he socked you." Fran grinned at the flat look thrown at her. She pulled over on the Main Street, outside the station. The single lamplight clung to the wall above the entrance in its black iron holder. "What has you so interested in Ricky anyway?"

Tinsley opened the car door, speaking over his shoulder. "He's an interesting man, that's all."

"Alright." She leaned forwards to speak to him out the window. "But remember, curiosity killed the cat."

"But satisfaction brought it back," replied Tinsley with a wink.

"And you think you'll get satisfaction from Ricky?"

The detective's face went blank. He gave her a long, level look, despite the sly smile on her face. Then he said goodnight and thanks, and he left.

"Well," muttered Fran, checking the rear view mirror, watching his tall thin figure wander off down the dark street like a ghost. "Maybe you do know when to shut up after all."

* * *

Tinsley woke up feeling groggy, the light hurting his head. He rolled out of bed, still fully-clothed, and dragged the curtains closed. He hadn't been drinking. He was pretty sure he hadn't been drinking. He looked at the empty glass and the almost-full bottle of scotch out on the low table between the couches in the sitting room. He'd had one drink, sure. But not enough to feel like this. 

He made his way to the bathroom, flicking on the light, and was immediately reminded as to why he felt quite so groggy. His eyes were blackened, one more than the other. He'd cleaned the blood off when he'd got in, but there were still a few light stains on his skin. He sighed heavily. Then he turned on the shower, and stood under the hot water for a long, long time. And he thought of Ricky Goldsworth, and the permanent anger in those black eyes. And he thought of the chauffeur, and the wooden pier, and the lack of wood on the car, and the lack of tire marks on the slimy pier surface. He thought of the waitress, and her open disdain of the family. And he thought of Jesse Fear. But most of all, he thought about Ricky.

He got out and got dressed, and towel-dried his hair. It didn't matter what way he dried his hair, it did what it wanted anyway. Today it seemed to be cooperating, apart from that single strand that always fell loose from all the others. It hung down in the center of his forehead. He scowled at it. The phone rang. He picked it up with a 'yeeeello?'

"Detective, this is the Mayor from Goldsworth Manor."

Tinsley pressed his lips together in a line before just saying "Mm?"

"Mr Goldsworth wants to meet. He has something important to discuss with you."

"Ah. Does he." Tinsley pushed his glasses on, wincing as they agitated his nose. He hoped it wasn't broken. "Does it include covering my hospital bill?"

"I don't believe so."

"Well can you take a message?"

"I can, sir."

"Tell him that I have no interest in meeting with him because I've decided that I don't particularly like him or enjoy his company."

"...Do I have to say it word-for-word, sir?"

"Yes. I choose my words very deliberately, and I'd prefer not to be paraphrased."

Tinsley dropped the phone back onto the receiver. It rang again almost instantly. He threw a bit of a strop, coat half-on, before snatching it up again.

"What? What is it?"

A cool metallic voice responded. "It's Holly. Holly Horsley."

"Oh right. Sorry. Hi."

"I'm sending a car to collect you," she said, the sound of a purring engine in the background. "I want to talk."

"I- We are talking." He shrugged his coat on fully as he talked, checking for his cigarettes in his pocket. He lit one up, speaking around it. "I have plans today. So-"

"It'll be there in a few minutes. Breakfast is on me."

He opened his mouth to reply, but decided to close it after remembering that there's no point in trying to talk to a monotonous beep. He put the phone down on the receiver with a heavy sigh. Then he went to meet the Devil's right-hand woman.

* * *

“Ah, detective.” Holly Horsley folded her paper in half, setting it down on her left side. “You’ve made it.”

“Ms Horsley.”

She waved a vague hand at the seat across from her. “Please, do sit.”

He nodded, pulling the seat out and sitting down. Then he looked at her. She smiled back; the gesture didn’t quite suit her hard mouth. He checked the restaurant around him; quiet and neat. One side of the room was just floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bay. The sun was climbing into its afternoon station, proud and high. He pursed his lips, waiting for her to talk. 

“Lovely set up.”

“Isn't it? One of my favorites in town. I fund half of it myself, you know.” She spoke finely, each word enunciated perfectly in her lilting British accent. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I invited you to see me.”

“I’m curious, yeah.”

“Yes, you seem to be a curious man indeed.” It didn’t quite sound like a compliment, despite the smile still on her face. “Would you like a drink?”

He checked his watch, readjusting his glasses on his nose. “Bit early, isn’t it?”

“Oh, don’t be silly. One won’t hurt.” She ordered a gin with lemon juice, seltzer, and ice. “And what would you like, detective?”

He shrugged, giving the waiter a quick look over his glasses. “Uh, whatever she said.”

She nodded slowly, sitting back. “Hm. Most men wouldn’t dream of ordering such a ‘girly’ drink.”

“It’s just a drink,” he shrugged.

“So it is.” She continued speaking as the drinks arrived, shiny and crisp in their glasses. A wedge of lemon rested in each one. “You’re not afraid of appearing feminine, are you, detective?”

Tinsley raised an eyebrow at this, taking a sip of his drink to stall his response. “...I suppose I wouldn’t be as aware of what is and what isn’t feminine as most men. But it also doesn’t really matter to me.”

She nodded as if he’d read out some thought-provoking poetry. “I hear you were poking around the subject of Mr Goldsworth’s father.”

 _This again_. “Yeah. Mistake on my part.”

“So you’ll stop?”

He sniffed, even though it agitated his nose, made his eyes hurt. “Mistakes have never stopped me in the past.”

“I see.” She took a sip of her drink, her pinky raised like a proper lady. It wore a plain silver ring. “How is your relationship with _your_ father, detective?”

He didn’t respond for a moment as he mulled it over. Then he shrugged. He was shrugging a lot. “It was normal, I suppose.”

“Was?”

“Mm.”

“I’m sorry.”

He cleared his throat, taking another mouthful of his drink. “Yeah.”

“Were you close?”

“Not particularly. Just… normal.” He tilted his head, giving her a long, level look. She was presenting herself as an open book, if the pages were entirely blank. “Why are you asking me about this?”

“I just couldn’t help but note how your mannerisms are quite feminine.” She inclined her head, her silvery hair not moving a lock out of place. “Did you spend much time with your mother?”

“I can’t emphasize enough just how normal my relationship with my parents was,” said Tinsley sternly. He kept a grip on his drink, but he didn’t lift it. “Why are you asking me about this.”

“You sit in quite a ladylike manner,” commented Holly, her eyebrows raised in vague interest. “You cross your legs and you rest one hand in the other when you sit. Not how most men sit.”

Tinsley lowered his gaze, his mouth pulling down at the corners in contemplation. “I see. Well, if you’re looking for an apology for the way-”

“An explanation,” she corrected, her chin raised. “For your mannerisms, and your gestures, and your lack of overall masculinity. Not that I yearn for it, but its absence is a recent curiosity of mine.”

He stared at her in stony silence, his eyes dark over the top of his glasses. Then he sat back, and crossed his legs, and rested one hand in the other, fingers folded around each other. “I don’t think I owe you one, to be honest.”

“That is fair.” She took another absent-minded sip of her drink, pressing her lips together so that she didn’t miss a drop. “Ricky has taken an interest in you, detective. I’m just wondering if you’re taking an interest in him in return.”

He let out a quiet breath, speaking on the exhale. “He’s an interesting man.”

“From a distance,” she said heavily.

He didn’t look away, unblinking, his jaw set. She stared back coolly, taking another sip of her drink, her pinky raised. He exhaled sharply, turning his head aside. Then he got to his feet, fingertips still resting on the tablecloth.

“Well it’s not a relief, Ms Horsley, to find that Ricky has _two_ mothers, and still runs around this town like a damn wild animal.” He left his drink, pausing beside her to mutter a few more words at her, out of nothing but anger. “Maybe learn to control him.”

“You should try.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Hm?”

“You should try controlling him,” she replied just as evenly, her gaze distant. “See how easy it is to put a muzzle on a dog when it has a crown on its head.”

“Maybe you should’ve got him fucking neutered.” He went to walk away. Then he turned back, resting a hand on the table as he leaned in to speak quietly to her. "Look, I'm just in this stupid town because I was called here to figure out why your chauffeur was killed. I don't know why you and the family you work for are riding my ass like this. Just leave me alone, and I'll be off your dicks before you know it. So enough with all of you calling me up trying to intimidate me, alright?"

Horsley just gave him a quiet-eyed stare, her drink hovering near her mouth. "You're an outsider."

"Well you don't exactly sound local."

"You misunderstand the meaning of 'outsider', detective."

"No. No, I get it loud and clear."

Tinsley left abruptly, grabbing his coat off the rack. Horsley followed him with her eyes, and again, she couldn’t help but notice the slight sway of his hips as he walked. She’d known it instantly. She picked up on the tiniest details; the neatness of his hands, the absence of that intolerable masculinity most men strive to achieve, and the general womanly edge to him. This was trouble. This was nothing but trouble. 

Tinsley scowled into the sunlight as he stepped outside, waiting for his eyes to adjust. There was someone waiting for him, sitting back on the bonnet, one hand in his pocket, the other occupied with a cigarette. Tinsley slowed for a moment, his darkening mood visible on his face. It was Ricky, stretched out leisurely, like a cat in the sunshine. Or, as Tinsley called him, Mr Goldsworth. He preferred the distance it instilled. They both did. The detective meandered to a halt, taking out his car keys, unlocking it with a bit of attitude. The car beeped as it unlocked. Ricky ignored it. He stayed sitting on the bonnet, one foot set on the ground, the other swinging calmly.

“Mr Goldsworth,” said Tinsley lazily. “Ms Goldsworth. Francesca Norris. Holly Horsley. If you’re all so desperate to get to know me, I’d advise setting up some sort of meeting. It’d save us all a lot of time.”

Ricky just let his head tilt back as he exhaled the smoke from his cigarette, baring his throat in a manner that was a crime in itself. “I prefer a bit of one-on-one.”

“Mm. Must be harder to punch someone in the face when there’s people watching.”

“Oh, not really.”

Tinsley tossed his keys lightly in his hand, watching the other man warily. “Believe it or not, but I’m actually beginning to get a bit sick of seeing your face. So if you wouldn’t mind.”

Ricky grinned at him as he slid off the bonnet. “Walk with me.”

“I don't think so.” Tinsley stepped around him, rolling his own unlit cigarette around in his fingers. “I-”

He didn't get to finish whatever he was about to say. His face met the bonnet quite suddenly indeed, the cigarette falling from his fingers as he pressed his hands to the car, trying to shove back. The grip on the back of his neck just got tighter, harder, so hard it hurt. He gritted his teeth as Ricky leaned in to continue chatting in a truly amicable manner.

“I'd really like if you walked with me, detective. I've been alerted to the fact that you're not too fond of my company. Maybe we could fix that.”

Tinsley glared up at him, the bonnet hot against the side of his face. “Walk where.”

“It's a lovely day. Why not the Boardwalk?”

Tinsley closed his eyes, swallowing as he felt Ricky get closer against him. “Fine.”

“Great!” Ricky let him go, smiling brightly. “You're much more agreeable today, detective. Suits you. So do the black eyes.”

Tinsley straightened up slowly, glaring down at him as he shrugged his coat off. It was much too hot of a day. He yanked open his car door, throwing the coat in, and his tie in after it. Then he slammed the door shut, muttering to himself.

Ricky raised his eyebrows, leaning forwards. “Sorry? What's that?”

“You and your family are just out to ruin my schedule today, you know that?” Tinsley lit up his own cigarette, still glaring at everything and anything. “I have shit to do. People to talk to.”

“I'm a person to talk to.”

Tinsley scowled at him as he strode past. “Anyone but you.”

Ricky followed with a smile, taking the gold-tipped sunglasses from the front of his shirt and slipping them on. “What did Holly want to talk about?”

“Nothing important.” Tinsley puffed away at his cigarette, moody as the sea in the distance. Families wandered around the Boardwalk, enjoying the sun while it was still ruling the sky. “I hope you want to discuss something actually important.”

“Look. I understand my reaction last night was a bit rash.” Ricky stuck beside him, smiling up at him, and for a split second Tinsley could've been fooled into thinking this man was a genuinely nice person. “I didn't mean to hit you quite so hard.”

“I think I deserved it. I deserve about sixty percent of the punches I receive.”

“You're funny.”

“And you're rich and beautiful and bored.” Tinsley came to a halt in the shade beside a busy ice cream parlor. “My least favorite kind of person.”

“Oh?”

“Just out to cause trouble for everyone else.”

“There wasn't any trouble until you arrived, detective.”

“So the chauffeur never existed, hm?”

“That wasn't trouble, Tinsley.” He shrugged, tilting his head aside. “That was just business.”

Tinsley sharpened instantly, eyes narrowing. “So you know what happened.”

“I know that you should back off while you have the ability to do so.” Ricky let a hand drift up, softly cupping the man's jaw, holding him still. “You're smart, detective. You have a brain in there. Use it.”

Tinsley looked down his nose at him before brushing his hand away. “You killed him.”

“Even if I did, what could you possibly do about it?” Ricky laughed in his face, a deceivingly bright sound. “Arrest me? I'd break every bone in your body before you could even blink.” He leaned in towards him, suddenly very serious altogether. “And even more importantly, private detectives can't arrest people. You're nothing, really.”

“And what are you, Mr Goldsworth?” he replied casually, gesturing with his cigarette. “What are you without your family, hm? You wouldn't last a day in the real world. Outside this town you'd be ripped apart. Your type always are.”

Ricky smiled again, one Tinsley felt in his hip pocket. “You've never met my type before, detective. I promise you that.”

“You'd be nothing without your family,” continued Tinsley with a light shrug. “You'd be useless.”

“I'd be your worst fucking nightmare.” Ricky spoke the words in a harsh whisper, not so smiley anymore. “My family's the only thing stopping me from chucking you into the bay with concrete shoes to join all the rest of them. Do you understand me?”

“I don't know. You were saying some words, but all I could hear was 'help me, my mommy said I'm not allowed play with the big kids anymore’. Sound right?”

Ricky didn't respond for a moment. Then a smile spread onto his face, more of a snarl than anything else. “Real funny. Real fucking funny.”

Tinsley took a long leisurely drag on his cigarette, bathing in the hot fury from the shorter man as he did so. It was hotter than the sun itself, and ten times more satisfying. He spoke on the exhale. “Lovely chat. Let's not do it again, ever.”

Then he turned away, and strolled back towards his car. Ricky didn't follow. Tinsley didn't think twice about it.


	6. Bloodsport

The small reception area smelled comforting and warm; old books and hot coffee and burnt-out candle wicks. The dim room was full of silence. It could’ve been a brighter room, but the windows were muggy and in need of a good clean, or better still an entire replacement. From some room nearby was the tick-tacking of a typewriter. There was no secretary around, so Tinsley folded his coat over his arm and went to the nearest door, on which the words _Doctor Fear_ were pressed in chipped gold letters to the frosted glass. He let a hand drift out to pick at one of the peeling edges. His own office door looked a bit like this one, except it was thousands of miles away.

“Who is it? What are you doing?”

Tinsley jumped at the snapping voice from inside, whipping his hand away from the door. “I, uh- Sorry. I’m just- Can I come in?”

“Who is it?” A hunched figure rose up through the frosted pane, fumbling towards the door. The handle wobbled a bit before being pushed down, revealing an old man with a few wisps of white hair brushed across the top of his bald head. “Who are you? What do you want?”

Tinsley blinked. “I- I’m looking for Mr Fear?”

“Doctor Fear. I have a doctorate.” He pointed at the gold letters with a gnarled finger. “It says it right there, big fella.”

Tinsley looked at him; those icy eyes tore into him like claws. “I want to talk about the Goldsworths.”

For once, this question wasn’t answered with a slamming door. The man readjusted his thick-lensed glasses on his round nose. “Huh? What about them?”

“Their history. Particularly if they have a history of violence.”

The old man grumbled and muttered and coughed once or twice. “I’ll see what I can dig up. Come in. Come in come in.”

“Just like that?”

Fear smiled at him, but it wasn’t a kind one. It was a sneaky twist of his mouth. “That family hasn’t bought me out, big fella. I’m here to serve the people of this town and that’s what I do. Come in.”

Tinsley went in, waiting patiently while Fear shuffled back to his seat. He could see that the man was frustrated; old in body, but sharp in mind. Tinsley could imagine nothing worse. The man sat down with the same sound air makes when it’s released from a bag. He gestured vaguely at the two seats in front of him.

“You can sit. Or you can stand. Stand while you still can.” He reached under his desk, taking out a glass bottle. “Drink?”

Tinsley nodded, one hand in his pocket, the other still holding his coat over his arm. He examined the office around him; one wall was entirely filing cabinets, with dusty old newspapers poking out of some. The dates went as far back at the early 1800s. He accepted the drink, taking a sip, and by God it almost took his tonsils out. He swallowed it anyway, his eyes blinking rapidly, tear-filled. He’d gotten too used to drinking the finery that the Goldsworths drank, it appeared. He took another sip.

“That strong enough for ya?” Fear grinned; his teeth were yellowish. “That’ll put hair on your chest.”

“Mm.” Tinsley rested his coat over the back of the nearest chair, moving over to the filing cabinets. He heard a flame spark, then the satisfied _puff-puff-puff_ of a lit cigar. “What year were the Goldsworths most prominent in?”

“Year? Single?” A snarky laugh. “The Goldsworths have always been here, big fella. Way back from 1650s, 1700s, on and on. Always been here. Drugs, drugs, drugs, and more recently, gambling.”

Tinsley pressed his lips together in a line. “Mm. They don’t strike me as a drug-trafficking family. Too… elegant. Most of them, anyway.”

“That’s because they don’t use,” said Fear with a wise shake of a finger like a twig. “They’re very careful not to use. They buy and they sell and they transport, and that’s that.”

“And they gamble.”

“Oh, they gamble alright, but not on those ships, and not with money. They just own them ships, run them, little bases out in the bay. You with me?”

Tinsley kept his back to him for a moment, wandering along the cabinets, his pointy nose stuck out as if he’d be able to smell any valuable headlines. When he spoke, it was soft and suspicious. “Why are you telling me this.”

“That’s what I do,” said Fear proudly, smoothing his faded suspenders down against his shirt and lifting his chin. “I won’t run around gossiping, no way, but if someone comes to me and asks, I’ll answer. They know that.”

“And they’re okay with that?”

“I’m lucky, big fella. I’ve got family out of this town. They’ll have to come poking around if I get the gat here, and the Goldys can’t risk that.” Fear sniffed. “Well, the mother knows she can’t risk that. The son… He’s something else, he is. The only thing in my life that I can truly say scares the living daylights out of me.”

“The son?” Tinsley raised his eyebrows in feigned innocence. “What’s the son like?”

“He’s like his grandfather, that’s what he’s like.” Fear pushed himself to his feet, and the conversation seemed to have sparked some life into the old boy. He shuffled around the desk twice as quickly as before. “There’s articles. Many articles, written by my predecessor. I was a young ‘un when the first Mr Goldsworth was around.” He ruffled around in a few drawers, disturbing the dust, before finally drawing one out. He held it as carefully as a surgeon holds a scalpel. “Feast your eyes.”

Tinsley took the paper, shaking it slightly to let it fold out. He instantly saw where Ricky got his eyes from, and his hair. Black as a moonless night. He skimmed the article, his eyes narrowing. “...Have any other ones like this?”

“Oh, I do I do. And-”

“What about Mr Goldsworth’s father?”

Fear’s face stiffened. “...That is one that I cannot discuss, I’m afraid.”

“But you’ve told me-”

“I can’t discuss it because I promised that I wouldn’t.” Fear continued picking through the cabinets, speaking over his shoulder. “Ms Goldsworth runs a dubious business, but she’s a respectable woman, and she keeps her word. Only right that I keep my word in return.”

“But when Ms Goldsworth is… gone.” He said it softly, lifting his gaze sidelong to gauge the man’s reaction. “Would you have to keep your word then?”

“Yes. Promises don’t die like we do.”

Tinsley folded the paper in half, tapping it against his open hand. “So you know about Lucy.”

“I’m wondering how _you_ know.”

“My own grandfather had it. I know what it looks like.” He shrugged. “Or I know what it sounds like, anyway.”

It appeared he had crossed some sort of line. Fear barely muttered as he handed Tinsley paper after paper, before sitting back down and fixing the paper in his typewriter and going back to work. Tinsley left.

When he came out, there was a secretary at the desk, and she was a right slap in the face after the company of the editor. She was attempting to perch a vase of brilliant red and orange roses on the shelves, her body stretched out in long lean lines. For a second, Tinsley didn't believe she worked there; her hair was thick and dark and curled to frame her pale face. Her lips were painted almost as darkly. The black dress was high in the collar and long in the sleeve, but fitted close enough that it didn't matter. When she looked at him with her sharp slanted eyes and smiled, he smiled back. Women didn't appeal to him frequently, but when they did, they sure did.

“Need help?”

She relaxed back on her shiny black sensible heels. “Certainly.”

He took the vase from her with another smile, acting as if he didn't notice her look him over from head to toe as he easily put it in place. “There?”

“Bit to the left,” she replied with a sly smile.

He did so. Then he turned on his heel to face her. “Mind if I ask you a quick question?”

She sat back on her desk, crossing her stocking-clad legs. Her dress rose up along her thighs. “Sure.”

“How does a girl like you work for a sleaze like that?”

She giggled, kittenish. “Charmer.”

Hm. The last person to say such a thing to Tinsley had not sounded quite so amused. In fact, he'd sounded quite unimpressed altogether. Tinsley swiftly pushed aside the thoughts of him. “I'm deadly serious.”

“I have an apartment,” she replied with a suggestive smile added. “I have to pay for it somehow.”

“No man in your life to help you out, no?” he said innocently.

She didn't reply for a moment, her lips pressed together in a curved line. “No. I'm afraid I haven't got the time.”

“Ah. Pity.”

“Anyway, they help me out when I need it.”

Tinsley paused in turning away, arching an eyebrow. “They?”

“They.” She nodded upwards, as if towards the Heavens. “You know.”

“Ah. _They_.” Tinsley rubbed a hand across his mouth as if contemplating the meaning of life. "Do _they_ take you out for dinner too?"

She giggled again, a light blush across her cheeks. "No."

"Never even offered, hm?" He wandered closer. "I'm shocked that the young and single man of the family has never set his sights on you."

"Maybe he has," she replied with a casual shrug, tilting her head aside. 

"No. He hasn't. Because then you wouldn't be here, working for that human bread crust." Tinsley smiled at her again, hearing her stifle her laugh. "And no lady in her right mind would say no to a face like his."

"Maybe I'm not in my right mind," she grinned, bouncing off the desk. She extended a slim-fingered hand. "I'm Darla. You?"

"Tinsley."

Her eyes lit up, her grip on his hand tightening slightly. "As in the detective?"

"Sort of. Private one." He raised an eyebrow. "I've been discussed?"

"Sure you're the talk of the town, detective." She leaned in slightly with very serious eyes. "Word is you're funny and handsome and Devil-may-care."

"And is word true?"

She giggled again, twisting the heel of her shoe into the rug. "Not a hint of a lie."

"Good to know." He placed his hat on as he turned away, speaking over his shoulder as he headed for the door. "Maybe I'll see you around sometime, Darla."

"Maybe you'll see me tomorrow night," she replied, finally sitting back at her davenport. "On the _Monty_ , at nine."

He simply smiled a charming smile, and left.

* * *

He stopped the second he stepped into the room. Something was off. Something wasn’t how he had left it. His eyes skimmed the low table, the couches, the open kitchen door, the closed door leading to the bedroom. Then they settled on the ashtray by the window. He hadn’t left the ashtray by the window. He also hadn’t left three still-smoking cigarettes in it. His keys clattered to the floor.

The bedroom door opened, and in it stood Ricky, as casually as if it was his apartment. “Ah. You’re home.”

Tinsley could see the mess in the room, his drawers pulled open, wardrobe on the floor. Two other figures lurked behind Ricky, taller, bulkier. Bulldozers. Yet Ricky was still the most terrifying thing in that room. Tinsley backed away, bumping into the side of the door, grabbing onto it. He was frightened. He was trying to hide it, but he was frightened. Ricky could almost smell it. Yet the detective didn’t run. He braced himself back against the door, a wide-eyed glare on his face. He knew there was no point in running, or calling for help. He was a deer in a forest full of poachers.

He resisted only a little as the two guards dragged him further into the room, one of them catching him by the collar of his shirt in a meaty fist. Tinsley scowled at the offending guard, indignant, scrambling to stay upright as he was hauled into the room. He heard his front door being shut and locked and bolted. Then he was shoved hard enough to fall onto his back, hitting off the table as he went down. He propped himself up on his elbows, panting for breath, glaring at the man who’d shoved him. Then he turned his fierce gaze to Ricky, who stood smiling in the background. He guessed it was possible to hate a beautiful face.

“You know,” began Ricky relaxedly, wandering forwards, fixing his sleeves around his elbows. “When the Mayor informed me that you don’t like my company, I was hurt, detective. You hurt my feelings.”

“You can’t hurt what you don’t have.”

“I’d advise that you shut your mouth.” He lit up a cigarette, the flame illuminating his face, reflecting in his eyes. He crouched down beside the detective, head tilted, elbows resting on his knees. “Cigarette?”

Tinsley forced himself to breath again, letting his head hang back, his eyes close. He exhaled sharply. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” repeated Ricky with a loving smile. He flicked the tin open in his hand, his smile curling cruelly at how the detective flinched at the movement.  “Help yourself.”

Tinsley gritted his teeth, staring at him for a long few seconds, weighing the pros and cons. Pros: he’d get a cigarette. Cons: he might lose his hand in the process. He reached over, taking a cigarette, placing it in his mouth. He stayed still as Ricky generously lit it for him. He let the smoke curl out into the air. Then he crossed his long legs, and said: “Well this is romantic.”

Ricky grinned at him, giving the man’s cigarette a light tap. “You see that?”

“Yep.”

“That’s how long you’ve got.”

Tinsley frowned. “Until what.”

Ricky bit his lip in a smile of child-like excitement. “That’s a surprise.”

Tinsley smoked slowly. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Ricky stroll back-and-forth, taking his own sweet time with his cigarette. Tinsley glared at him. Then he glared at the two guards, who stood stoically by the door. He was glaring a lot, but the only other option was wide-eyed fear, and he wouldn’t give Ricky the satisfaction. Fear's words swam around his head. _The son… He’s something else, he is. The only thing in my life that I can truly say scares the living daylights out of me._ Tinsley sat upright to stub his cigarette out. Unfortunately, he’d only been able to make it last five minutes.

“Great! You’re finished.” Ricky smiled brightly, chucking his own stub aside, ignoring the low mutters about watching the rug. “If you’ll please follow me.”

Tinsley was promptly hauled upright by the nearest guard, snapping a few words at him. “I can stand up myself, pal.”

“I’d like this experience to be relaxing,” said Ricky kindly. “You don’t have to move a muscle.”

“You’re too sweet,” muttered Tinsley as he was dragged towards the door, right past the shorter man’s darling face.

He grunted as he was shoved up against the wall, his arms yanked behind his back to be bound with a rough rope. He kept his fists clenched to stop them from shaking. This wasn't going quite as planned. He'd been in the town two days and was about to, what, meet his end? He wasn't sure, and he wasn't fond of such a feeling.

He opened his mouth to talk just in time for the gag to be pulled on, hard enough to jerk his head back. He let out an indignant but muffled yelp.

“Oh don't be like that,” said Ricky as he escorted him out the door. “I like you, I do. But you're sticking your big ol’ pointer where it shouldn't be stuck, and that's just unfortunate.”

The detective's eyes were wide with fright, unable to settle on any one thing, not even his face, for once. Ricky didn't know how he felt about that. He wasn't stupid; he'd noticed the way the man watched him, stared at him, looked him over like he was just a pretty picture. Maybe he'd miss it. Or maybe he wouldn't, since that was the norm for him. Ricky sat into the driver's seat, throwing the detective a bright smile as he was forced into the passenger seat. The door was locked. The guards got in the back, silent as ever. Tinsley's heavy breaths were noise enough until the engine started.

They arrived at the graveyard promptly, but at this end Tinsley wasn't quite so eager to leave the car. He struggled fiercely, and it actually took both guards to get the lanky bastard over to the rusted gates. Ricky raised his eyebrows in a mildly impressed manner. The detective dug his heels into the ground, the gravel crunching as he fought to back away, his fierce glare fixed on the gates and the single torchlight flickering between the gravestones. And if he went quiet, he would have heard the sound of shovels shifting soil.


	7. Drink the Water

"C'mon," said Ricky, one hand holding the gate open, the other raised so he could see his watch. "Chop chop."

He got a muffled torrent of curses in response. Tinsley's footing slipped and he was hauled towards the torchlight and the single gravedigger, who kept his head ducked and down. He was just about to finish, it seemed. He avoided Tinsley's eyes, the shovel jabbing into the dirt over and over. Tinsley struggled fiercely, leaning back against the man holding him, his shoes scraping through the dirt as he fought to back away from the fresh grave.

"You're a big guy," said Ricky airily as he sparked up his cigarette. The flame illuminated his calm face. "I'd say you'll last a while. Maybe two, three weeks."

Tinsley went still, his breath freezing in his chest, his heart along with it. He looked at the black pit, shaking his head, his mussed hair falling forwards with the movement. "Mmmfm. Mffmm!"

"Sorry, what?"

Tinsley breathed heavily and harshly through his nose, his fists clenched behind his back as he was forced to kneel down beside the grave. His heart pounded in his chest, hard enough to make him wonder if it was simply going to pop. He wished it would. He'd rather go that way than what was being presented to him right then. The digger had melted into the darkness a few feet away. He generously left the torch. The world was in black and white, the sky above beginning to turn gray. Ricky crouched down beside Tinsley, using the hand with the cigarette to point right in his face.

"I warned you not to fuck me around. And I'm sure everyone else warned you too. But you did, so here we are." He hooked a finger behind the gag, yanking it down off his mouth. "What do you say to that, big guy?"

He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady. "Don't do this. You can't."

"You feel that, Tinsley?" He jabbed the detective in the chest, smiling. "That's called fear. I'd advise you don't forget it anytime soon."

"Ricky. Ricky, come on." His voice shook more with each word. He felt the guard grab hold of his arms tight enough to hurt. "This is crazy. I haven't even _done_ anything!"

"You've pissed me off."

"Well that's not a crime."

"It is in this town." Ricky straightened up, tapping the ash from his cigarette. It sparked in the growing light. "I doubt anyone will miss you anyway. Not for a while."

Tinsley didn't respond for a long moment, staring at him with furious eyes. "I have a date tomorrow, and she's going to be very disappointed when I don't turn up."

Ricky skipped a beat. "She?"

Their eyes locked, the two of them going still. Tinsley's breathing slowed, his face growing a few shades paler. Ricky swallowed, glancing at the guards to make sure they couldn't hear. He didn't know why he said that. He didn't care, anyway. He didn't. And if he did he was just being stupid and foolish and greedy. The detective opened his mouth to reply, seeming a bit hesitant. The crackling of tires against gravel ended his sentence before it started, and the newcomer had the relief wash over Tinsley so suddenly he could've passed out in it.

Lucy slammed her car door shut, striding through the gates, wearing a nightgown and quilted dressing robe. The ever-present Holly followed. The Mayor waited obediently by the car, silhouetted by the headlights, one hand resting behind his back. He must have come out of the womb with that stance. And Tinsley turned to Ricky with a triumphant smile that swiftly withered; Ricky was already smiling, a cruel curve of his mouth. He'd known. He'd known the whole time he wasn't going to get away with it. Tinsley breathed the words.

"You bastard."

Ricky just gave him a wink that would've made a nun drop her panties, and straightened up to undergo a scolding.

"Ricardo." Lucy hugged her robe around her as she crossed the grass in slippered feet. "What in the world do you think you're doing?"

He gestured vaguely at the detective. "Just sorting some problems out, _mamá_."

She scowled at him, hurrying to untie Tinsley's hands. "Get into the car, Ricky. I mean, I was just about to have breakfast, and I get a phone call from the Minister saying that he saw you speeding down Main? We've talked about this!"

Tinsley gingerly rubbed his wrists, suddenly feeling quite out-of-place. He felt more uncomfortable than Ricky did, it seemed. The man just grinned at Tinsley like it was all just some big joke, giving his hair a playful ruffle before he headed back towards the gates. Only when the car door closed did Tinsley risk getting to his feet again. He smoothed down his tie, dusted himself off, doing anything normal in an attempt to relax his mind. He only snapped back to reality when Holly Horsley spoke to him.

"Lucy will be out of town for the next week, detective," she said flatly. Her eyes were on the car that Lucy was currently pacing towards. "I'm sure you know what that entails."

He didn't reply. He wasn't sure if his voice had stopped shaking yet.

"Be careful, Tinsley. Be careful around him." She was already walking away, hands in her gray coat pockets, her voice drifting over her shoulder in misty breaths. "I can't give much clearer a warning than that."

* * *

Tinsley sat for a while outside the church. He sat on the stone steps, one newspaper in his hand, and a few more beside him, stacked. What had started out as a tense morning had now dwindled to a slow and relaxed afternoon. The sun sat in the sky, blurred behind the low cloud, making the sea far below look black and malicious. The waves crept in, further and further, carrying whatever it touched back out to its watery depths. Tinsley read the article on the former Mr Goldsworth's deeds and dealings, and saw that although he did indeed have a look of Ricky, he did not act like him at all. His actions were mainly guessed, seeing as he appeared to be too smart and too sly for them to be traced back to him. Kidnappings, robberies, murders, all unknown. There was a picture or two of a very young Lucía Goldsworth, a chubby toddler, and there were pictures of another family. The Montepulcianos. Tinsley didn't look into that too much. It didn't seem that they were around anymore.

"Are you alright?"

Tinsley looked up at this, staring at the blurry figure. He then remembered he'd taken his glasses off to read the papers, and swiftly moved them from the front of his shirt back to his eyes. The man he then saw was clearly the priest; old, white, and wearing the traditional getup of black robe and white clerical collar. But he had a gentle face and kind eyes. The most deceiving of appearances.

"I'm fine," said Tinsley, bundling up his papers before getting to his feet. "You're the Minister?"

"Aye. Fitzgerald." 

Tinsley hesitated. "Do I- Do I call you Father Fitzgerald?"

"If you want." He spoke plainly and quickly, to the point. His accent was distinctly West of Ireland. "You're not a religious man, nay?"

"Uh, nay. No."

"And what do I call you?"

"Tinsley. Or Detective. Whichever." He arched an eyebrow at the facade of the church. It wasn't overly impressive. A single stone tower stood in the center, and the roof sloped up to melt into it either side. "I was hoping to catch you, actually. Just to ask a few questions."

He put out a soft hand to touch the newspapers, a bushy eyebrow raising. "You're here about the Goldsworths,  hm? Best come in."

Tinsley followed him up the stone steps, waiting patiently as the Minister took out an iron ring of keys, using the largest and oldest one to unlock the double doors into the church. He set them open, and the sun was bright and bloody through the stained glass windows of the inner doors. The smell of incense was warm and soft. Tinsley followed the Minister in, letting his eyes observe his surroundings; rows of plain wooden pews sat either side of the tiled aisle, leading up to the grandness of the altar. Three tall windows sat behind it, letting in the gray sunlight at a slant. He paused at the bottom of the carpeted steps up to the altar, letting Fitzgerald continue on without him. The Minister set himself up at the altar, lighting a few red wax candles, opening up his Bible, spreading the thin yellowed pages out. Then he smiled down at Tinsley, a gesture that seemed more habit than genuine kindness.

"You can come up, detective. I doubt you'll erupt into flames."

"Eh, I'm good down here."

"Not a fan of the good Lord?"

Tinsley shrugged, newspapers still bundled in his arms. "He's alright. Hasn't done much for me."

"I'm sorry to hear that." He waved a slow hand at the pews. "Have you tried praying harder?"

Tinsley stared at him, unable to tell if he was messing or not. It didn't seem that he was. "...I'm not here to be converted. I'm here to-"

"Get nosy about the Goldsworths. Aye, so you said." He smiled again. Tinsley was really beginning to dislike that smile. "Any questions in particular, detective?"

"Well I was already talking to Doctor Fear about-"

"That buffoon." A hearty chuckle. "A crazy old man bunkered up in his mouldy office. What shite was he talking, hm?"

Tinsley inclined his head at the barely-hidden hostility. "Not much. Since he gave me sources." He let his eyes drift to the Bible. " _Credible_ sources, I might add."

"I see." The Minister shrugged his shoulders. "Then I'm unaware as to why you've come to me. All I have to offer is common sense, I'm afraid."

Tinsley ignored the jibe for now. "I've been told Ms Goldsworth is a holy woman."

"Aye, she comes to pray for the good Lord to have mercy on her enemies, seeing as she won't." He rested his hands on the Bible. "And to confess her sins."

"Sins?"

"Terrible sins, detective." He gave Tinsley a narrow-eyed once over. "Just as everyone should do. Have you ever gone to Confession?"

"I've admitted my sins," he replied dryly. "To myself in the mirror after a few scotches."

"Funny. Aye, I heard you're funny." Fitzgerald raised his hands slightly, palms up. "This town doesn't need funny, detective. It needs quiet and obedient. I'm sure you're aware that you don't quite fit in."

"Quiet and obedient isn't really my style. And I dont think it's anyone else's style in this town. I think they're all scared." Tinsley arched an eyebrow, challenging. "Scared of a system perfected down to the last detail. And unfortunately I've always been a bit of a 'power to the people' type myself."

The Minister laughed, an unpleasantly coarse sound. "Power to the people? The people wouldn't know what to do with power even if it was handed to them on a silver plate. They couldn't pour water from a boot if the instructions were on the heel, for goodness sake." He moved around to the front of the altar, hands clasped behind his back. "The people need to be led."

"And that's what the Goldsworths do? Lead them?"

"Not intentionally. But the people can't seem to help but follow."

"Even the son?"

"Even the son."

 _I suppose I'd follow an ass like that too._ "But mainly Lucy."

"She's a natural leader," replied Fitzgerald simply.

"Who is divorced, I'm guessing. Not exactly favourable in the eyes of the Big Guy."

The Minister raised his bushy brows, not speaking for a long moment. "You have the same attitude."

"Hm?"

"As Ricky. You have the same cocky attitude, wandering in here as if you're the best thing since sliced bread." He rubbed at his round nose. "Although at least Ricky has a reason to think so. You're more... insufferable."

Tinsley's eyebrows shot up at this. "Excuse me?"

"Ricky doesn't flap his mouth as much as you do." The Minister descended the red-carpeted steps towards him, slow and easy. "Theres only one voice that matters to me, detective, and that's His." He nodded up towards the ceiling. "Not yours. Not anyone else's. So unless you have something of importance to discuss, I have a mass to prepare for."

Tinsley's face hardened, his teeth gritting. "What happened to Ricky's father."

"Aye, a sin indeed." His voice was a whisper, as pitiful as his eyes. "Such a terrible sin. But even when she confessed, she showed no remorse, no regret. And she probably never will, not until she's on her deathbed." He watched Tinsley's face with unsettling curiosity. "But if we only lament our sins on our deathbeds, are we truly sorry? Or are we just desperate for forgiveness now that punishment is staring us right in the face?"

Tinsley closed his mouth, swallowing hard. "I dont think there _is_ punishment, really."

"And is that not more terrifying, detective?"

Tinsley didn't look away. He kept staring even as the Minister turned away and ambled back up to his altar. He was a black shadow in the sunlight from the three slashed windows. He couldn't quite see, but he had a feeling the Minister was smiling again.

"This town is a community, detective. We don't take well to outsiders." His voice was gentle and kind. "Especially when they're troublemakers. But when the Lord our God delivers them to us and we defeat them, then we destroy them totally. Make no treaty with them, and show them no mercy."

Tinsley set his jaw, the newspapers crumpled in his arms. When he spoke his voice was rough with anger. "I dont have a temper, Fitzgerald, but I do have a limit. Just keep that in mind next time we have a little chat."

The Minister smiled. "Peace be with you."

"I don't see why it would start being with me today."

And with that he left, striding down the aisle, muttering to himself. No matter where in the world, men of God were always a waste of time to talk to. Caught up in a world of their own while Tinsley was caught up in everyone else's worlds.

He dumped the papers on the passenger seat of his car and dumped himself in front of the wheel. He didn't start the engine. He held the steering wheel loosely, his face growing thoughtful as he watched the tide sweeping in, washing everything away. He watched it for a long while, lighting up a cigarette, sitting back in his seat. He watched the waves, and he watched the lights of the two gambling ships grow brighter as the world grew darker. He thought of Darla the secretary. He thought of Ricky Goldsworth more, and the genuine surprise in his voice when he said 'she?' Tinsley's fingers tapped the wheel irritatedly. Then he turned the key with a bit more force than necessary, and pulled away from the church, and the Minister watched from just inside the doors.

He drove down the winding road to the pebbled beach, not that he could get onto it. The tide had come in too far, frothy white and slatey black. He lit a cigarette and watched the sea and felt the salty spray on his face. Yes, the tide came in far. Far enough to pick up a car and bring it back out into the ocean. He exhaled the smoke in a harsh sigh, hugging his coat tighter around him. He'd doubted it from the beginning, really. The likelihood of a driver being shot and the car going in a perfect straight line down the pier was very slim indeed. He looked over his shoulder at the manor perched on the cliffs like a grand bird of prey. It seemed to watch him back. The waves swelled, the wind whistled, and behind him the bushes rustled out of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title inspo is a song called drink the water by justin cross aka a little insight into the Minister's True Intentions


	8. The Second Hand Ticks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it seems like an overly-long chapter, but it's just the dialogue so it's g

The Mayor had always been in the manor. He knew each and every framed oil painting by name, he knew how many candlesticks were in the front hall, he knew which rooms were occupied simply by the creaks of the house. He'd been a young man when he'd first started with the former Mr Goldsworth, spry and smart. He'd stood aside as Mr Goldsworth set out his orders, heard the screams, dreamt of them more often than not. He'd watched Lucy grow from a toddler to an intelligent young woman to an even more intelligent older woman. He'd been in the meeting room when Holly Horsley had been hired for her efficiency and dubious morals. He'd been in the stairwell when the former Mr Goldsworth passed away from his wounds. He'd given Francesca Norris her tour of the various rooms when she'd gotten lost. He'd been in the parlour when Ricky Goldsworth was born a happy baby. He'd been the one to find them, his hands dark with blood and tears leaving streaks of mascara down her cheeks. He knew everything about them, only because he had long ago learned to listen with more than his ears. If the Goldsworths were a clock, the Mayor was the second hand, timing everything to the last tick.

The doorbell rang. The Mayor handed the supper tray to the nearest maid before going to answer it. He peeped through the peephole, pursing his lips at the caller. The man had wandered away from the door, balancing on the top step, his tall frame rocking back and forth slightly as he looked over the shadowy front lawns. He was an odd one alright, deceivingly soft when really he was as sharp as a blade. The Mayor picked up the housephone on the wall.

“Ma’am, it's the detective.”

“Oh, let him in.” She sounded weary beyond her years. “But don't tell Ricky. Send him to Holly. I have a boat to catch so I'll slip out the back."

“Of course, ma'am. And good luck."

So he let the fox into the coop. The detective gave him a courteous nod as he passed by, coming to a halt in the middle of the hall. He took off his hat, running his fingers through his thick hair. He tapped his hat off his hand in a steady rhythm, wandering closer to the oil portrait above the roaring fireplace.

"Grandfather Goldsworth?"

The Mayor nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Where have you seen those eyes before, hm?" he grinned over his shoulder. "Those eyes belong to someone who kicks puppies for a living."

"Mr Goldsworth has never kicked a puppy, sir."

"Yeah, yeah. It's a joke." He turned on his heel to face him directly, surprisingly graceful for a man of his stature. "Where is he then?"

The Mayor blinked. "You're here for Mr Goldsworth?"

"Yeah. The good-looking one. I was just down on the beach and have a few... curiosities I'd like to discuss with him."

The Mayor let his mouth point down at either end as he took the man's coat and hat. Without the loose-fitting coat the detective was slim and fit, unexpectedly so. "Are you sure, sir? I do believe he isn't exactly... fond of you."

"Don't worry, I'm sure I find him just as abhorrent as he finds me."

"I doubt that, sir. Mr Goldsworth feels emotions on a different scale to most people."

The detective stared at him in silence, and once again the Mayor was struck by the sudden and fiery defiance burning through the man's otherwise gentle composure. There was an anger in this man that he'd witnessed few times in his life, a Leviathan lurking under the surface. It would be best not to provoke it.

"I never exactly understood the need for butlers myself," said the detective cuttingly. "But I believe your job is to serve people, not question their choices."

"Apologies, sir." The Mayor smoothed down his waistcoat, nodding towards the far hallway. "If you'll please follow me. He's probably in the parlour."

"The parlour. Well."

The Mayor led him through the hallways, each as dark and tastefully decorated as the next. The detective whistled a jolly tune behind him as they walked. Maybe he was a screw loose; it hadn't even been twenty-four hours since Ricky had attempted to kill him, yet here he was, looking to talk to Ricky. The Mayor hoped Ms Horsley would come upon them in the hallways, but hope proved as futile as always.

The Mayor knocked upon the door to the parlour with a gloved hand. "Sir?"

A delayed and distracted response. "Mm?"

"Detective Tinsley."

Another delayed response, but not so distracted this time. "Alright."

The Mayor opened the door, stepping into the room and aside for the detective to pass by. Ricky lay back on the deep red couch in front of the single giant window, legs crossed, one hand behind his head, the other holding a book open on his chest. He watched the detective with cool black eyes, and the detective watched back just as coolly. The Mayor watched as they watched each other. The silence was as taut as the air before a strike of lightening.

The detective made his way over to the drinks, picking up the crystal decanter of scotch. "Mind if I make myself at home?"

Ricky shrugged, his gaze flickering up and down the man's tall frame. "I don't see why you'd want to."

Tinsley didn't speak as he poured the golden liquid from one glittering container to another. He lit a fresh cigarette, turning back to find that Ricky had stuck his nose back in his book. He appeared to be quite irritated indeed. The Mayor felt as though he should be waiting with a fire extinguisher at the ready. 

"Why wouldn't I want to?" Tinsley stood behind the couch, looking down at where Ricky's eyes were just visible over the top of his tattered book. "You've made my time here so far just heavenly."

"I'm sure there's a point you'll get to eventually." Ricky stretched out like a cat in the sun, letting out a low sigh in lieu of a purr. "Hopefully soon."

"Right." The detective sat himself on the back of the couch, one foot still on the floor, the other swinging casually as he reached out a curious hand to the book. "I'm surprised you read books, Mr Goldsworth. You didn't strike me as a man who'd enjoy fine arts."

"It's like you said," replied Ricky just as softly. "I'm rich, beautiful, and bored. What else am I to do?"

"Pretend to threaten someone's life."

"It wasn't pretend, detective." Ricky smiled at him, laying the book aside before relaxing back into the couch. "It was a free sample."

The Mayor observed their exchange with worried eyes. He'd attempted to ignore it at first, but it was there. Something more than just curiosity between them. Ms Horsley had had her suspicions about the detective right from the start, and she was rarely wrong. And Ricky was never quite disciplined when it came to personal indulgences, especially when lust was involved. The detective turned away from the couch with an audible 'tut', working away on his cigarette as he circled around to the other side of the couch. Ricky rolled onto his front, lighting his own cigarette, resting his chin in his hand as he studied Tinsley like he was a slice of cake and Ricky was trying to decide where to bite into first.

"Could I get a coffee, Mayor?" Ricky didn't take his eyes from Tinsley's as he spoke. "One sugar. I'll ask the detective if he'd like one once he's finished drinking his dinner."

"I would like one," said Tinsley flatly. "Black. Thanks."

The Mayor closed the door behind him before rushing to make the fastest cups of coffee he'd ever made in his life. He wasn't sure if he'd return to the room to find a bloodbath or return and find them wrapped up in each other's arms. He wasn't sure which would be worse. He placed the two ceramic mugs on a silver tray, adding milk and sugar to one before pacing back through the corridors. He rang the bell for Ms Horsley's room as he went. He paused outside the door to the parlour, so still even the mugs didn't rattle, and he did what he always did; listened carefully.

"You didn't frighten me in the slightest," came the detective's lazy drawl. It sounded as if he was seated now. "I've seen scarier things than you in my lifetime, Mr Goldsworth. Although you do try your hardest, considering the fact you have the face of a cherub."

"You seemed pretty frightened, with all the trembling and struggling and the _begging_." A bright laugh. "That bit was my favourite. _Please Mr Goldsworth, you can't do this!_ "

"And you couldn't." The reply was flippant. "If anything, you just proved that you can't do jack-shit without your mommy's approval."

"You should thank your lucky stars, detective." The conversation went quiet. A lighter sparked and snapped shut. "I told you not to forget the fear you felt. But you don't seem to be the type of man who does what he's told."

The reply was a leisurely sigh. "No fun in doing what you're told. And I'm in this job because there's just so many opportunities not to do what I'm told."

"You're in this job because you got fired from your last one for insubordination, detective."

"Or in more simple terms, I got fired for not doing what I was told." He was smiling; it was audible in his voice. "Want to take a guess at the specifics?"

"I'd put money on there being backchat involved somewhere," said Ricky dryly. His voice was growing quieter, as if he was circling the room. "Nothing a good punch in the teeth wouldn't fix."

"You tried that already. C'mon, be inventive."

A stony silence. "Why are you here."

"I yearn for your company, Mr Goldsworth. And without your mother around, maybe you can be a bit more yourself around me."

"Myself?"

"Mm. Delightfully so." The smirk couldn't have been clearer even if the Mayor could see it with his own two eyes. "Let's play a little, hm? Use our imaginations."

The Mayor swiftly entered the scene, sweeping the silver tray over to the tabouret and setting it down. Ricky, standing by the fireplace, waved away his proffered cup, his eyes fixed on the detective, face thunderous. Tinsley, seated on the couch with his legs crossed, accepted his own cup with a smile and a thanks. Then he took a mouthful before saying: "First, picture yourself on a small, pebbled beach and the tide's coming in."

Ricky visibly bristled. The Mayor swallowed hard. "Right."

"And someone's daring to poke fun at you," grinned Tinsley, pushing himself to his feet, joining the other man in front of the fire. "What would you do, hm?"

Ricky narrowed his eyes at him; in the firelight, the detective truly was a handsome devil. "What is this."

"A conversation. With words. Let me know if I'm going too fast."

The Mayor swiftly left, fully aware that he'd need help if Ricky snapped. He rang Ms Horsley's bell again - where was she? - before hurrying back. He slowed as he got to the door, hearing the clipped voice.

"I've had just about enough of you. Get out."

"Get out?" The detective's surprise sounded almost genuine. Almost. "But I thought we were getting on great. Just like me and your delightful mother."

A silence with barbs on it. "My mom's gone for the week."

"And then she'll be back." The smile was audible. "Pity for you that she seems oh so fond of my health and safety. Hey, maybe I'll be your new dad, hm?"

The Mayor shoved open the door, seeing Ricky freeze in going at the detective with claws out. He stared at the Mayor with furious black eyes. The detective lounged back on the couch where Ricky had first been lounging, legs crossed, cigarette between two languid fingers. He didn't seem to care that he'd been seconds away from getting his throat torn out. He smiled at the Mayor, an effortlessly charming one. Waiting.

"Don't forget your coffee, sir," said the Mayor, looking at Ricky. "It might go cold."

"Ah, perfect. A caffeine boost is just what the little gremlin needs."

 _I should've let Ricky rip you apart for talking about Ms Goldsworth like that_. "Yes, sir."

The detective gave him a glance of hawk-like observance. "I think we have everything we need. So you can go and do... butler things, now."

Ricky didn't seem all too comfortable with this. He was tense to breaking point, fists clenched by his sides, his jaw set. "I want you to leave."

"No-" Tinsley paused to take an apparently satisfying mouthful of coffee. "No, you want me to stay so you can put me through the wall. And you know what? Go crazy. I've a few hours to kill anyway."

"That's more than enough from you," said Horsley sharp enough to draw blood. "Ricky, sit down. Both of you shut up." She cut across the room, her white hair bouncing with each step until she came to an abrupt halt in front of Tinsley. "You. Leave."

The detective placed his cup aside with a relaxed hand, snubbing out his cigarette before standing up. "Sure thing, miss."

The Mayor led him back through the candlelit halls to the front hall. He fetched the man's hat and coat, handing them over. Again, the detective watched him closely. No one watched a butler closely. The Mayor felt a bit odd. He wasn't sure what was making the man look quite so hawkish; his pointed nose or his sharp eyes.

"I'm sorry for talking about Lucy like that," said the detective into the silence as he took his proffered coat. "I know you were upset."

The Mayor blinked his pale eyes at this. "Yes, sir."

"I was just trying to provoke him." The man shrugged on his coat as he spoke distractedly. "He's easily provoked, isn't he? Easily worked up."

"I can't say that I know, sir."

This got a wry smile. "Clever." He fixed the belt around his narrow waist, still smiling. Definitely a charmer to the core. "You know that saying, right? _In a rich man's house, there's nowhere to spit but in his face._ "

The Mayor bit back his smile. "I can't say I've heard it."

"Well you've heard it and you've witnessed it now." He rolled a cigarette around in his fingers. "Ricky loves his mom, doesn't he."

"Yes, sir."

"And does he know about her?"

The Mayor hesitated before replying. "I don't think so, sir."

"I see." He ran his fingers through his thick hair; the gesture only accentuated his boyishness. "I have a feeling she's not just gone on a spontaneous holiday. Is this feeling correct?"

"I can't say, sir."

"Alright." The detective looked him up and down before placing his hat back on his head. "Well tell her I said good luck with the operation."

The Mayor didn't reply as the detective took off towards the door. He followed at a distance, watching him stroll across the lawn towards his car near the gates. What an odd man. An odd, smart, and dangerous man, who although appeared quite in control, was actually already running late for a date on a gambling ship. The Mayor closed over the door.

Back in the parlour, the conversation was going about as well as the Mayor would've expected it to be going.

"She's barely been gone for ten minutes and you're already acting like a brat!"

"Huh?" Ricky was slouched on the couch, arms folded across his chest. "I'm not! The Mayor let the bastard in."

Holly turned her slatey eyes to the butler. "Is this true?"

"Ms Goldsworth told me to, ma'am. To talk to you. But he wanted to talk to Mr Goldsworth."

"He wanted to talk to _you?_ No." She shook her head, tapping her chin with a manicured finger. Then she dropped the hand to her hip, giving Ricky a cool look. "Why would he have wanted to talk to you, hm?"

Ricky raised an eyebrow at the accusation in disguise. "I'm not."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah I'm sure." He rolled his big eyes, head tilting aside with the effort. "Him? Really?"

"Cocky, arrogant and smart-mouthed. Just your type."

"Maybe. Could've been." Ricky checked his nails, gaze distracted. "Apart from his whole, uh, personality and stuff."

"And since when do you care about such a thing."

"I think I've had enough of the interrogating," he shot back, getting to his feet and smoothing down his dark shirt. "So if you wouldn't mind-"

"Ricky, listen." She followed him to the door, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Lucy is gone for the week. That means you're in charge. So start acting like it."

"Fine!" He muttered the rest. " _Hijo de puta._ "

"Watch your tongue."

He stuck it out at her as he pulled open the door and stepped out into the corridor. He needed a drink, many drinks. He needed loud music and a place where Horsley wouldn't even dream of setting foot. He needed the _Montepulciano_. So he rang up Fran, and a collision course was unknowingly set.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is simply delightful


	9. Fuel to Fire

“Holy shit. Look who just walked in.”

Ricky glanced over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed. “Unbelievable.”

If the detective saw him, he pretended not to. He made his way through the crowded room at his leisurely gait; he moved with a surprising femininity, a slight sway to his walk, his gestures slow and gentle. He didn’t stick out amid the people half as much as he should have. Ricky took a moody mouthful of his drink, watching his path. He could feel his blood beginning to boil already. He stood up.

“I’ll be right back.”

He cut across the room towards the bar, on a collision course with the detective. Still, Tinsley ignored him, seeming preoccupied with some other mystery person; he had his pointy nose in the air like a bloodhound. Ricky couldn’t wait to break it. But he’d barely reached him when Tinsley turned with an easy smile and said: “It’s okay, I’ll get my own drink. Ta.”

Ricky did a double-take. “I’m not getting you a drink.”

Tinsley rested an arm along the bar, still with that lazy smile. “I know. I just said that.”

Ricky narrowed his eyes at him evilly. “What the hell are you doing here.”

“I’m actually here to meet someone,” said Tinsley, peering back along the bar with a slight frown. “I didn’t think she’d be that difficult to find, but shit, has this place ever opened a window? No need to spark up a cigarette in here, hm? Just take a deep enough breath and-”

“Shut up.”

“Fine. Jeez.” Tinsley shifted his glasses up along his nose, a long finger under the frame. “What’s with you, huh? A crown on your head but a chip on your shoulder anyway.”

“Do you ever shut the hell up.”

“You came over to me, Mr Goldsworth. What for, if not to talk?” Tinsley grinned at him. “You could stare from where you were, if you really wanted.”

Ricky gritted his teeth. He didn’t look away from the taller man’s face as the bartender drifted to a halt beside them. “We’re fine.”

“No we’re not.” Tinsley turned to the bar, giving it a light rhythmic slap with his hands. “I will have a scotch and soda. And what do you want, Mr Goldsworth? It can be my treat.”

Ricky didn’t respond. He stepped forwards, closing the small space between them. He saw the man’s smile slip the second the blade was pressed to his stomach. “Outside.”

Tinsley let out a quiet breath, one hand still on the bar. The drink was pushed into his frozen fingers. He picked it up before turning away and heading towards the far door. He knew Ricky was following by the way the crowd was parting reflexively. No one threw them a glance, but for the waitress across the room. Her platinum hair glistened in the low light. Tinsley didn't return her worried wave.

“Go. Move.” Ricky gave him a sharp shove, ignoring the muttered curse from the detective. “Open the door.”

Tinsley opened the small door; he had to duck through it. The sea air was sharp and crisp, but pleasant. The water lapped quietly at the sides of the boat. Across the bay, Hernando’s Hideaway was in full swing; the whooping and hollering floated across the black water to them. The town shimmered in a curved sprinkling of lights. Tinsley didn’t get to appreciate any of it. He turned to face Ricky, and his drink was struck from his hand in seconds. He barely had time to curse before the punch hit him hard in the stomach. Ricky put all his weight behind the sharp uppercut; the detective folded like a lawn chair. He stumbled against the railings of the boat with enough force to leave bruises on his arm in the morning, coughing violently.

“The fuck are you doing?” he managed to splutter, staying on his knees. One hand cradled his stomach, the other gripped the white bars of the railing. “I- I’m not even here to see you.”

“You’re annoying me. Your presence alone is annoying me.” Ricky crouched down in front of him, elbows resting on his knees as he spoke in a dangerously soft voice, as soft as the swelling sea, and with the same raw power behind it. “Every breath you draw is a nail to the chalkboard that is my patience. Do you understand?”

Tinsley kept his head turned away, breathing heavily through gritted teeth. “So what? You’re gonna fucking kill me because you’re feeling cranky?”

“Not yet.” He took hold of Tinsley’s jaw, wrenching his head back around to look right into his eyes. “You’re poking around in my business. And you know that you are. That stupid show earlier wasn’t exactly subtle.”

“It wasn’t meant to be,” replied Tinsley, somewhat stiffly, seeing as his jaw was still in an iron grip. “I don’t do well when it comes to subtlety.”

“Then you should learn. Fast.” Ricky looked down his nose at the other man, their faces inches apart. He felt Tinsley swallow hard, felt his jaw clenching harder. “I don’t like cocky men. I never have. So learn to zip it, or I’ll zip it permanently.”

Tinsley went to reply, but Ricky didn’t give him the chance, shoving his head aside like he was tossing away a piece of trash. The detective stayed where he was, glaring at the black sea below, his jaw burning where Ricky’s fingers had dug in. One hand still held onto the white railings, his knuckles almost as white. He only risked a glance when he heard glass shards being nudged. Ricky stood at the shattered drink on the ground, looking down at it. Then he looked at Tinsley.

“I’ll get you another one.”

“Chivalry isn’t dead, huh.”

Ricky didn't move away. He watched him, openly curious. The expression was pleasant on his face. "I know you think I killed the chauffeur. I didn't."

Tinsley sat back against the railings, as if he was meant to be there. "Sure. Yeah."

"I didn't," repeated Ricky firmly, glaring at the raised eyebrow he got in response. "If I did, it would be public knowledge, and you'd have joined him by now."

"No, I wouldn't have." The detective took hold of the railings, pulling himself to his feet. He dusted off his hands, as upright as if he hadn't just had his ass served to him. "Because I'm not from here. And you can't lay a finger on people who are from out of town. It'll attract attention to your little haven here."

Ricky's mouth closed. It opened again. "And who told you that?"

"No one." Tinsley came closer, his head tilted aside as he watched the shorter man with quiet eyes. "But this town has it's own language, I've noticed. A very subtle way of dropping hints. Which I guess would happen if they have a man like you breathing down their necks."

"Who told you."

"No one told me," replied the detective just as icily. "But I put two-and-two together anyway."

Ricky stared at him. His gaze flickered to the swelling water behind his tall frame. He could do it. He could easily do it. The taller someone was, the easier it was to knock them off balance, anyway. But the detective was correct in how he was essentially immune to the touch of the Goldsworth's. For now. So Ricky closed the small bit of space between them, speaking quietly.

"There's more than one way to make a man feel pain, Tinsley." He smiled at him, deadly soft. "And I know all of them."

"I'm sure you do." The detective let his heavy-lidded gaze travel down the man's face, down to the drink in his hand. "Now, I've a date to find." He gently took the glass from the shorter man's hand before giving him a wink. "Charming as always, Mr Goldsworth."

"A date. With a woman." Ricky's smiling voice had the detective wander to a halt at the door back inside. "Have fun."

Tinsley turned on his heel with a nonchalant swing of one long leg. "You know, sometimes I think that you have certain... suspicions about me." 

"And are they wrong?"

"Not exactly." Tinsley took a sip of the drink he'd commandeered. "But I do have a date. With a woman. Darla."

"Darla? As in the secretary?"

Tinsley nodded as he swallowed his mouthful. "Mm. You know her?"

Ricky smiled his signature lopsided grin. "Maybe you're not too good at putting two-and-two together after all."

He saw the detective's narrowed eyes brighten as his mind went to work. Then he said: "She works for you. Of course she works for you."

Ricky winked at him. "Bingo."

"So what was she meant to be doing? Seducing me? Because it would've worked." He spoke into his glass as he leaned on the railing. "I'm not too good at, uh, curbing my appetite."

"She's there to keep an eye on that loopy old man." A wry smile. "You think I'd hire someone to do my seducing for me? I'm insulted."

"Apologies. What was I thinking."

Ricky lit up a cigarette, the flame the only true colour outside the ship. "I don't know what you're thinking. I never do. It's pretty infuriating."

Tinsley shrugged, a slow blink accompanying the gesture. "Good. Stay infuriated."

"I will if you insist on sticking around."

"If you want me to leave so badly," said the detective, searching the other man's face as he spoke quietly. "Then tell me who killed the chauffeur."

Ricky rested an arm on the railing, his hand settling inches from Tinsley's. The water swished against the side of the boat far below, gentle. "I don't know."

Tinsley spared a distracted smile that didn't quite reach his curious eyes. "You're a perfect liar, Ricky. You've got the face for it."

"A face for lying?"

"A face distracting enough to make people not notice you're lying."

"I'm not lying," said Ricky coolly. "I didn't kill him, and I don't know who killed him. But to tell you the truth, I was going to snap the prick's neck myself that same day. I just got there too late."

"I see." Tinsley had to tread carefully; this was the closest thing to a normal conversation he'd had with the man in front of him, and it felt like he was skating on glass. "What had he done to upset you so, hm?"

Ricky smiled, resting his chin in his hand. "He threatened me."

"With what?"

"Buy me a drink and my lips might get a bit looser."

Tinsley looked at the lips in question. Then he nodded, and led the way back inside. Ten minutes later and they were at a small table on the opposite side of the room to the stage. A single stout lamp sat in the centre, golden light playing through the patterned lampshade. Tinsley watched the man across from him, at the colours he seemed to be painted in. His skin, his drink, the glitter in his eyes were a shade of gold Tinsley wouldn't forget anytime soon, and his mussed hair and loosely-buttoned shirt were a black as deep as his eyes.

"Are your lips loose now, hm?"

Ricky smiled at him from behind his glass. "Not quite." He leaned forwards, elbow resting on the table. "Let's talk about you first, hm?"

"You want to know about me? I'm flattered."

"You're a strange man."

"I'm as normal as they come," replied Tinsley with a small shrug, realizing he'd also leaned into the conversation. "I say what I mean, and I don't care for people playing with me like a cat with a ball of wool."

Ricky's perfect mouth curled into a smile. "I'm not playing with you."

"You do it so often you probably don't even notice anymore."

"Or maybe you're just a sucker for a pretty face."

Tinsley arched an eyebrow at this, leaning away from the light in an attempt to hide his reddening cheeks. "Your lips seem sufficiently loose, Mr Goldsworth."

"Ricky."

"Ricky," repeated the detective slowly, like the name had the potential to flatten the land if spoken too loudly. "We're friends now, are we?"

"No." Ricky took another mouthful of his drink. "No, we're not friends. You made your view on that very clear already."

"Mm."

"But it's alright," said Ricky lightly, gesturing at the waitress for two more. "We don't really need to be."

"No?"

"No." Ricky took the straw out of his empty glass, placing the end in his mouth as he looked Tinsley over. "Some things are a bit more fun without friendship getting in the way."

 _Well shit._ "I see."

Ricky smiled, tapping the end of the straw. "Am I intimidating you."

Tinsley watched him for a moment, fist pressed to his mouth, eyes serious. He took his fist away, letting it unclench so he could rest his head in it. "No. No, you're surprising me, Ricky."

"You can't possibly be surprised."

"Not because you're gay. Because you're actually making me smile."

"Slick."

"Just when I thought you couldn't get any more frustrating, you start waving around a sense of humour." Tinsley went quiet as the waitress dropped their drinks over. She gave Tinsley a sly wink before hurrying away.

"You didn't think I had a sense of humour?" grinned Ricky, an eyebrow raised. "I'm hurt."

"I thought you were a right bitch," said Tinsley, crisp and clear. "And you are. But here I am, enjoying your company anyway. Baffling."

Ricky watched him with a thoughtful smile. "It's refreshing to have someone talk to me so plainly."

"I'm not scared of you."

"Don't remind me," he replied with a pout, mixing his fresh drink with the straw provided. "You might send me spiraling into a mood again."

"Oh how awful." Tinsley lit a cigarette behind a cupped hand, waving the match out languidly. "You spiral into moods a lot, Ricky?"

"When provoked."

"You're very easily provoked."

Ricky gave him a dry look, silent. "You still think I did it."

"Do I think you, a man whose physically assaulted me various times since my arrival here, killed a man? Yes." Tinsley smiled at him through the haze of smoke. "I'll find out regardless. It might be a bit less embarrassing for you if you just confess now."

"Confess? Dramatic."

"Which you are."

"Fine." He shrugged his shoulders, a blatant come-hither look in his eye as he sat forwards. "I'll confess my sins, detective. Might take a while though."

Tinsley folded his arms on the table, one hand resting in the opposite elbow, cigarette hovering near his mouth. "Alright."

"I'm a sucker for a bit of wrath, I'll admit that," he said quietly, swirling his drink absent-mindedly around its glass. The ice sparkled. "And greed. That's a fun one. They're both fun ones. But do you want to know the most fun of them all?"

Tinsley watched in silence as Ricky took the straw from his drink and slipped it into his mouth, drawing it out slowly. "Mm."

"Lust." Ricky sat forwards, his shoulders slanted in a kittenish manner. "Because really, what's more fun than having someone who's clearly just _so_ bad for you."

Tinsley swallowed hard, keeping his face serious despite the flush across his cheeks. "Staying sane."

A sly smile. "You're shy."

"I'm not shy." Tinsley tapped his cigarette into the ashtray between them, gaze lowered. "But I've gotten involved with the wrong people many times before. And you're as wrong as they come."

"I'm not your type, hm?"

"Oh, you're exactly my type."

Ricky bit his lip in a coy smile, chin resting in his hand. "But you don't want me."

"I didn't say that." He shrugged. "I just think it'd be a... bad idea."

"How so?"

"Because we're both drunk and brimming with lust," replied Tinsley wryly, lifting his drink to his mouth. "Which is a sin I don't like to indulge myself in too often. Might become a habit."

"The sweetest habit there is, Tinsley." Ricky smiled at him, getting to his feet. He paused beside him, placing a finger under the man's chin and tilting his head back to look him in the eye. He had a surprisingly gentle touch, fingers hot against his skin. "Well if you change your mind, you know where to find me."

Tinsley just nodded, too dumbfounded to speak. He felt his entire body loosen when the man finally left. He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair as he took a moment to get his thoughts back on track. He finished his drink, and smoked another cigarette, the loud music just a blur in the back of his mind. He should leave, before this got any messier.

* * *

"I like him."

"Of course you like him. You like everyone."

Banjo smiled sleepily over his beer. "He's nice to me."

"Oh phooey." The Minister sniffed at his wine, a bushy brow raised as if it wasn't the best of the best. "I think he's rude. And I think he's trouble."

"I think he's got some sense in his head," muttered Fear around his cigar, puffing away like a chimney. "Which probably explains why you don't like him. Hrmph."

Holly weighed their opinions against each other as the two old men grumbled and got cranky, as they always did at these meetings. She waved her cards at a passing waiter for another round. Then she rested her chin on her fingers, and said: "Why do you think he's trouble, Fitzgerald?"

The Minister positively glowed at the fact he was chosen. Answerable to only God, he says. God and gold. "I told you as much, he came to me poking around in subjects that have been laid to rest for years! And his attitude is appalling. And I've heard that he's astoundingly good at his job."

"He is," said Fear, shrugging his small shoulders. He gestured with his glass of whiskey. "I did a bit of research, I did. His latest case was helping the Feds in Chicago with a serial killer, and the bastard confessed because he got a letter from one of the victim's mothers! Can you believe it?"

"Aye, so he got lucky," sneered Fitzgerald, swallowing his mouthful of wine. He reshuffled his cards."That doesn't mean he's good at his job, does it?"

"If it was even the mother who wrote the letter," interjected Banjo, wiping the foam moustache off his real moustache. "First day he arrived he was carrying around a letter, apparently. The old lady got a look at it - addressed to the station in Chicago."

"He wouldn't," gasped the Minister, brows shooting up. "Monstrous."

"Genius," corrected Horsley, her grey eyes narrowed. "Absolutely genius."

"I told you." Fear slapped the table with a gnarled hand. "He's smart, and he's gonna solve this murder."

"Maybe that's good," said Banjo with raised brows. "Since we don't know who did it."

"Oh that chauffeur was a little prick," said Fear into his glass. "Came to me demanding to see some newspapers and the like. I said there's only one thing around here that the Goldsworths can't pay for, and that's manners."

"He came to me too," said the Minister, just in case he'd been forgotten. "Enquiring about Mr Goldsworth's confessions, to which I had to reply that the day Ricky Goldsworth confesses any of his sins is the day I can die peacefully."

"Fat chance," said Holly, folding her cards into a neat stack in her jewelled fingers. "But I agree with Fear. The chauffeur was bad news, and he can rot for all I care."

The table murmured their agreements, going back to their cards. Really, Holly shouldn't have been there. Ricky should've been there in lieu of his mother, learning what it meant to rule efficiently. She adjusted her wire spectacles on her nose, looking at the smaller, darker gambling ship across the water. Taxis chugged back and forth across the bay. That's where Ricky probably was, drinking and fighting and fucking. Holly herself had always hated the _Monty_. Too sleazy, and full of too many dodgy dealings for her liking.

* * *

The night was descending into typical _Monty_ fashion. Women danced on tables, skirts up to show their stockings to the men and women watching with glee. Drinks were getting stronger and more easily sloshed about. Lines of white powder were the only remotely neat aspect of the room. Ricky sat back in his chair, his dark eyes still stuck to Tinsley's, despite the waiter on his knees between his legs. Ricky let his head tilt aside as the man pressed kisses all along his neck, all the way down and all the way back up, lining Ricky's jaw with them. Ricky just smiled at Tinsley, running a hand through the waiter's curly hair. Tinsley sat forwards, holding his drink on the table with both hands. He didn't look away, not even for a second. Partially because he couldn't look away first, and partially because he didn't want to look away ever. He took a deep breath as Ricky turned his head aside to kiss the waiter hard and slow, hands cupping the man's face, pulling him in with such fervour the waiter couldn't help but fall against him. Not that he would have resisted. Tinsley stared at the scene, so enthralled he almost dribbled his drink all over himself. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, slowing as he saw Ricky's eyes half-open to give him a sidelong smile. Tinsley finally looked away, and tuned back into whatever Darla was shouting over the music.

"Want to get out of here?" he said, his pulse racing.

She blinked. "Yeah, sure. And go where?"

"I- My apartment."

"Oh. _Oh_. Yeah. Sure." She grinned playfully, getting to her feet. "I'll go see if there's a taxi around."

"I'm- I'm gonna get some air."

He stumbled outside, inebriated in more ways than one. He leaned on the rail, eyes closed, trying to get rid of the scene branded in his mind. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing sharply, harshly. _Goddamn you, Ricky Goldsworth. Fuck._ He found his way to the bow of the ship, where it was quieter, where he could breathe. He sat on one of the deckchairs strewn across the planks. He let his head fall into his hand, taking a deep breath, letting it out slow. What the hell was he even doing here? He was being reckless. He should've left earlier. He should've stopped drinking. He should've done everything that he didn't do.

He looked up at the sound of a lighter sparking. He went still. "Hello."

Ricky smiled, but his eyes were downright predatory. "What has you out here all alone, hm?"

Tinsley readjusted his seating. "Needed air."

"Something had you breathless?"

He nodded, fingers tapping out an agitated rhythm on the arms of the chair. "Yeah."

"That's very sad."

Tinsley sat back, readjusting his glasses on his nose as he looked the man over again, in that manner that had Ricky's pulse skip. "And what has _you_ out here, hm? You seemed quite content in there."

Ricky gave him a long look, the corner of his mouth twitching, debating a smirk. "You're a bit of a smart-ass, aren't you."

"Mm." Tinsley rested his chin in his hand, his gaze still roaming free. "But we all have our flaws. Most of us, anyway."

"I have flaws too, believe it or not."

"Doesn't look like it."

"You just can't see from over there."

"Then come a bit closer," said Tinsley, finally looking back up at the man's face.

Ricky paused mid-sip. Then he swallowed the drink with a smile. He placed the empty glass aside, moving away from the main party, towards the detective. It was quieter out here, the sound of the music muffled behind the walls, the lights hidden. He stood over one of Tinsley's legs, looking down at him from under his lashes. _C'mon. Make a move_. Tinsley just smiled, a small one, but the flush was spreading across his cheeks, his dark eyes had a hard glint in them. Ricky let a hand drift out, taking him by his stubbled jaw, feeling the pulse pick up under his touch.

This seemed to be enough playing around for the detective. He simply took Ricky by the hips with surprisingly strong hands, pulling him down, sitting him back across his lap. He slipped his fingers around the side of Ricky's neck, cupping his face, brushing a thumb across his lips, watching with a lowered gaze. The lips parted, waiting. Tinsley just smiled.

"You're cute," he said quietly, feeling one of Ricky's hands rest against his chest. "But you know that, don't you?"

Ricky relaxed back as the detective's fingers traced down his shirt buttons like he was a present just waiting to be unwrapped. "Mm."

He gave a little wriggle of his hips, slipping further between the detective's legs, feeling him stiffen underneath him in more ways than one, hearing the shaky exhale. He curled closer to the man's body, one hand resting against the side of his face as he pressed the softest of kisses to his cheek. Tinsley took a deep breath, his eyes fluttering closed, head tilting back as the kisses move down to his neck, each as heavenly as the last.

"You little demon," he muttered, pulling the man closer against him.

Ricky's lips parted against his throat, his tongue darting out to brush across his skin, and Tinsley had enough. His hand pushed up the inside of the man's thigh before grabbing him through his trousers. He felt Ricky freeze like he'd been shot with 50,000 volts before instantly melting against him, face buried in his shoulder. Tinsley didn't let up, palming him through his trousers as he picked up his glass, took a distracted mouthful. The feeling of Ricky's body pressing and rubbing against his was delicious, hands dragging down his back, hot through his shirt.

Ricky finally took his face from the detective's shoulder, and his cheeks were red, and his mouth was parted as he panted for air, and his black eyes glittered behind black lashes. "Follow me."

Tinsley nodded, allowing the man to take his hand and lead him down the side of the ship. The lights, the noise from inside seemed so far away, as far away as Hernando's across the water. Ricky slipped into a dark hallway, giving the detective a most enticing glance as he went. Tinsley knew this was a terrible idea, but he didn't quite care as much as he'd cared earlier. He followed the bad idea, and he slipped a hand around the back of his neck, and he drew him into a fierce kiss, tilting Ricky's head back with the force of it. The man tasted like whiskey, and smoke, and delicious mistakes. Ricky let out a pleasantly surprised noise, letting himself be guided back against the door, his hand distractedly fumbling for the handle. He opened his mouth, felt the detective instantly accept the invite, slipping his tongue in. He ran a hand up through his thick hair, curling his fingers in it, drawing the taller man in harder. He felt Tinsley's hands slide around to his lower back, pulling his hips forward, pressing their bodies together, hands running up Ricky's back, feeling the hardness, the heat through his shirt. Ricky automatically started at the taller man's collar, tugging his tie open, unbuttoning the shirt about halfway down his chest before he convinced himself to stop.

"Wait," he breathed, breaking off. He could hear the heavy breaths echoing his, feel them hot against his lips. "In here."

Tinsley went into the dark room and immediately knew something was off. He turned as he heard the door being shut. The light flickered on overhead, not the brightest. Ricky stood by the door, running a thumb along his bottom lip with a satiated smile. On the couch sat Darla, looking a bit miffed. At the desk sat Fran, legs crossed and a pistol on her knee. Tinsley looked at the two of them with narrowed eyes. Then he looked at Ricky and said: "I think you're the worst person I've ever met."

"Oh don't throw a strop just because you don't have any willpower." Ricky flicked open a box of cigarettes, drawing one out with his lips before continuing. "You crumbled like a pie crust, Tinman. Hope you're proud."

"Park over there, pal," said Fran, using the gun to gesture further into the room. "Hands up, and stay still. This doesn't have to get messy."


	10. Action, Reaction

Tinsley kept his hands behind his head, a small smile on his face. “I guess I’m not half as popular as I originally thought.”

“Oh, you’re popular,” said Ricky, his voice no less deadly for its drawled manner. He sat himself on the bed, legs crossed, lighting up a cigarette. “Which is exactly why we’ve decided that this is… necessary.”

"Necessary?"

"The town likes you, detective," said Darla flatly, nursing her drink. "And your thoughts. And your rebellion against a system that shouldn't be changed."

"This is for the good of the town," said Fran with a shrug. "They have it lucky, and we don't need you convincing them otherwise."

“Yes, I’m sure you all had very much equal say in this decision.”

Ricky shrugged, seemingly unbothered as he leaned back, a hand pressed to the covers. “More or less.”

Tinsley narrowed his eyes at him before turning them to Fran. “You ever used a silencer before? More than one shot and it’ll blow that pistol up in your hand.”

“I only need one shot,” she replied with a smile. She never really seemed to stop smiling. The corners of her mouth just tucked in more. “And anyway, it’s packed with steel wool, so it can manage three shots. Don’t try and teach me about guns, detective.”

“Right.”

She screwed it on lovingly, humming to herself. Ricky lay sideways on the bed, a hand propping his head up, the other still occupied with the cigarette. Tinsley stood with his hands behind his head. He felt very useless indeed, and altogether quite vulnerable. He swallowed as Ricky’s eyes travelled down his body. It didn’t make him feel so good anymore.

“Can I just ask why Ms Horsley isn’t here?” he asked as Fran continued setting herself up. “Or is this occurring on the down-low.”

“Oh, Holly’s much too cautious for my tastes,” said Ricky, still laid out like a king’s _cortejo_ on his chaise lounge. “Really, I don’t know why my mother hired her.”

“I do. And it’s for the exact reason you don’t like her.” Tinsley didn’t take his eyes off the gun as it was loaded up. “Your mother’s smart, Ricky. Which I guess means that you took after your mysterious father.”

Ricky’s face went dark. “ _Pendejo_.”

“Yeah.”

“Get into the bathroom,” said Fran, standing up, smoothing her skirt down around her. “Blood doesn’t come off carpet as easily as it comes off tiles, you know?”

“Just shoot him,” muttered Ricky.

“I think you should ring up your real employer,” said Tinsley, giving her a level look. “See what she has to say about this.”

“It doesn’t matter, as long as I’m the one to shoot you,” she replied with a smile. “My job is to do the hit and take the time.”

“What if your time doesn’t end this time?”

“Just shut him up already,” said Ricky impatiently, pushing himself into a sitting position. “Put one between his eyes.”

“A lifetime in jail is just a normal lifetime,” said Tinsley lightly. “But ten times longer.”

“I won’t get a lifetime,” she replied, but there was a glimmer of doubt in her eyes now. She glanced at Ricky.

“I’m from out of town, lady. You’ll have my friends from Chicago poking around here.” He shrugged, linking his fingers loosely behind his head. “And they won’t like what they find.”

“Pull the trigger,” said Ricky firmly, getting to his feet. “Fran.”

“And you know who also won’t like what they find? The FBI.”

“Ricky…” She looked sidelong at him. “What if he’s right?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Ricky fiercely. “Because there’ll be no body left to find.”

“The cops outside of this place actually do their jobs, Ricky,” said the detective. “Think before you do anything rash.”

“I’ve thought long and hard about it.”

“Well think again.” Tinsley raised his eyebrows. “How many dead bodies are under this boat, hm? How many are unmarked up in that graveyard? You’d find yourself with a one-way ticket to Old Sparky.”

Ricky glared at him, his lip curling slightly. Then he put out his hand to Fran. “Gun.”

She hesitated, looking from him to Tinsley and back. “Are you sure? I-”

“Gun!”

She placed the handle in his hand. He checked the silencer was on tight, his eyes not leaving Tinsley’s for a second. Tinsley’s face was pale, his hands clammy behind his head. He tried to swallow, but it felt like his mouth was full of sawdust. His eyes fluttered as the barrel of the gun got in line with his face.

“Am I really worth dying over?” he said, voice hoarse. He heard the click as the safety was flicked off on the gun. “C’mon.”

Ricky turned his head to say to Fran: “Make sure the door’s locked.”

Fran moved. Tinsley moved. He swiped his gun from under his arm, firing two rapid shots without even really taking aim. The wood of the wall splintered, the small window shattered. Ricky ducked with a yelp, stumbling aside before raising his own gun, hearing Fran give out a shriek. He froze, finger firm on the trigger.

“Put the gun down,” demanded Tinsley, one arm around Darla’s shoulders, the other aiming the gun at Ricky, and then at Fran, and then back again. “Put it down. Now.”

Ricky let out a quiet breath. “ _Hijo de las mil putas._ ”

“Put down the fucking gun,” snarled Tinsley, bringing the gun to the side of Darla’s head. She let out a quiet squeak. “Put it down, Ricky!”

Ricky narrowed his eyes evilly at him. He could easily take the shot; Darla barely came up to the man's chest. Then he looked at her pale face and round frightened eyes. He put the gun down on the floor.

“Push it over here,” said Tinsley, his eyes glittering. “Now.”

Ricky did so before straightening up, hands half-heartedly raised to shoulder height. He looked at Fran, who appeared entirely enraptured at the sudden twist in Tinsley’s attitude. He was just showing his true colours, he supposed. A PI from a big city. The detective used the gun to gesture at the door.

“Unlock it.”

Fran looked at Ricky, who gave the subtlest of nods. She unlocked the door. The sound of the party wafted in as the door slowly creaked open. Darkness had never seemed so enticing. He nodded at Fran to go out. After another nod from Ricky, she did so.

“Go on,” muttered Tinsley, gesturing at Ricky with the gun. “You too, sweetheart. Keep your hands up.”

Ricky spat some profanity at him before doing so. Then Tinsley shoved at Darla to go too, swiftly closing the door behind them and locking it. Then he ran to the shattered window, cleared the glass out with the blanket off the bed, and clambered out in a not-too-impressive display of grace, involving lots of flailing of long limbs. He let himself drop to the deck outside, landing hard on his shoulder with a grunt. He stood up, dusting himself off as he spared a glance up and down the deck. Then he took off towards the water taxis.

* * *

Ricky hurried across the bustling room, shoving people aside before slamming to a halt against the bar. “Phone. Phone! Give me the phone!”

The bartenders clambered to give him the phone. He angrily spun in a number, listening impatiently to the chirpy voice that answered.

“Hernando’s, how can I help?”

“Is the chief there?” he demanded, his eyes darting around the crowd for a glimpse of a messy-haired head. “It’s Ricky. Tell him it’s urgent.”

“Right away, sir.”

Ricky tapped the counter in an agitated rhythm as he waited for Banjo’s voice. He straightened up as Francesca reached the bar, her brows raised, her eyes round and nervous. It was an unusual expression on her generally cool and collected face.

“He’s not in the room anymore!” she said over the music. “He got out the window!”

“Signal to the taxis to piss off,” he said, feeling his blood beginning to really boil. “He’s not getting off this fucking ship, do you understand? If you see him, shoot him.”

She hesitated, eyes still round. “I don’t know, man. I mean, if he’s right, and we get found out-”

“I said shoot him!”

The bumbling voice reached him through the phone. “Hullo?”

“It’s me. Ricky. I need you to contact the station and send some guys to Tinsley’s apartment.”

A confused pause. Then he said: “Who?”

“The stupid _pinche_ detective,” said Ricky harshly, squaring his shoulders as he spat into the phone. “He’s gone.”

“The what detective?”

“Ring your guys,” said Ricky, in a forcefully slow voice. “And tell them to go to the private detective’s apartment, and to keep him there, and not to lay a goddamn finger on him until I arrive. Did you get that?”

“Um, yes. I believe so.”

“And block off the roads out of town.”

“Okey.”

“And don’t tell Horsley.” He slammed the phone down, taking his offered coat from Fran and yanking it on. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Tinsley stayed low in his car, holding his gun close to his chest, staking out his own apartment. There were people in it. Two people. Two men, and from the silhouetted shape of their hats, they were cops. He rolled an unlit cigarette around in his fingers, too afraid to risk lighting it. He was in a hell of a pickle here. The town was probably going to converge on his apartment like particularly ravenous vultures. He sank lower, attempting to flatten his hair down as headlights appeared in the rear view mirror. The shiny black car sped past, swerving in and skidding to a shoddy halt in front of the building. Tinsley gritted his teeth at the short figure that got out of the car, at the anger with which the door was slammed shut. He waited until Ricky and Fran had disappeared into the apartments. Then he slid over to his passenger door, cracked it open, and slipped out like he was made of jelly. Now was not the time to be brave. Now was the time to be smart.

He hightailed it to the one place he could think of which offered any sort of safety from Ricky Goldsworth. He hugged himself against the icy sea breeze. The walk along the coast road seemed ten times longer than usual, and at any moment a car could’ve driven by and spied him. But nothing passed by on the dark and silent road. The sea glistened around the gambling ships in the distance. The single wrought-iron light outside the station glowed solitarily. Tinsley went uphill.

He paced across the grass, throwing glances over his shoulder at the winding road snaking downhill. The entire town was dark but for the light outside the station, under which he could just about make out shadowy figures moving. No car was following. They must still be waiting for him. He went right up to the doors, and knocked three times, loud and clear. Then he waited. The door opened.

“Detective.” The Mayor seemed genuinely surprised. “I’m afraid there’s no one in at the moment. Maybe you could call back tomorrow. Late in the day, I’d advise.”

“He’s trying to kill me,” blurted out Tinsley, still hugging himself, even though the breeze wasn’t quite so cold in the doorway. “Is Holly in?”

“No, sir. I’m afraid not.” The Mayor looked him over, thin lips pressing into a worried line. “I suppose you should come in anyway, if what you say is true.”

Tinsley gave a small, grateful smile before stepping into the warm hallway and relative safety. Grandfather Goldsworth glared accusingly at him from his photo frame above the fire. _How dare you not just die?_ those eyes said. _Preposterous!_ He glared back at those eyes, but it wasn’t the same man he was seeing.

“Would you like some tea, sir?”

“Would I.” Tinsley followed him further into the halls, only because he didn’t want to be alone. He stared at the various faces in gilt gold frames, painted in dark oils, dark-eyed and olive-skinned. “Are these all Goldsworths?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All from Spain?”

“Mexico, sir.”

“But Ricky’s not fully Mexican, right?” Tinsley raised an eyebrow at the sudden narrow-eyed glance thrown his way. “Sorry. I just thought there might be some other ethnicity in there somewhere. Sorry if I offended.”

The Mayor watched him in contemplative silence. “Japanese, sir.”

“His father?”

“Yes. His father.”  He came to a halt beside the parlour. “You can wait in here. I’ll bring you your tea.”

“Oh.” Tinsley scratched his chin, looking at the crackling fire visible through the doors. “...But what if he comes in? I'm not too good at the ol' fisticuffs.”

“I’ll be able to see him approach.”

And with that, the Mayor drifted off. Tinsley stood in the middle of the thick rug in the parlour. He listened to the whispering fire. He took his gun from its holster, tipped out the cartridge, spun it, replaced the two missing bullets, clicked it back in. He lit a cigarette, pacing back and forth. Maybe he shouldn’t have come here. Maybe he couldn’t trust the Mayor as far as he could throw him. The man slipped back into the room, gloved hands passing a steaming teacup to Tinsley.

“How long have you worked for the Goldsworths?”

The Mayor paused in leaving. “A long time, sir.”

Tinsley sniffed the tea, just in case. “How long?”

He thought about it. His thick brows came together, pale eyes drifting aside. “I believe I started with the former Mr Goldsworth, sir. I must have been fifteen.”

“What age are you now?”

“I’m sixty-five, sir.”

Tinsley raised his eyebrows. “Wow. Long ol’ stint.”

“Yes, sir.”

The detective watched him, the gears almost visible grinding behind his eyes. No, they didn’t grind. They were used frequently, and each turn was oiled and smooth. “Did you know the Montepulciano family?”

The Mayor stared at him. Then he just nodded and said: “Good evening, sir.”

Tinsley let him go. He made a mental note to visit Doctor Fear and his newspapers again, if the chance to survive was given to him that night.

He heard the commotion before he saw it, chattering voices. The doors swung open, and in strode Holly Horsley, her grey coat still on and scarf tucked in. The chief of police ambled along behind her, his flushed face giving away his alcohol content. There were two uniformed men with him. He didn’t care about any of them as much as he cared about the black-coated figure striding down the corridor behind them. Ricky tugged off his black gloves as he entered the parlour, his gaze fierce enough to butcher a cow at fifty paces. He looked infuriated beyond words. Tinsley smiled at him.

“Detective.” Horsley unbuttoned her coat, handed it to the Mayor, unwound her scarf. “We were wondering where you were.”

Tinsley took the cigarette from his mouth. “I’d say you were alright.”

Ricky’s fingers twitched, begging for a trigger to be under them. He stayed silent.

“I was actually looking for the chief here.” Tinsley gestured at the man in question. “Might file a complaint or two against a certain family.”

“File a complaint?” Ricky sneered the words. “Maybe you’re stupider than I thought you were.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Thought it was the least I could do, considering the fact I’d already called my old station in Chicago to catch up. Let them know how I’m doing and such.” He watched the faces stiffen at the lie, Holly’s going positively waxy. “A few of them sounded pretty interested indeed in this town.”

Holly opened her mouth to speak. She didn’t get the first word.

“If you’ve actually done that,” said Ricky quietly, unbuttoning his coat as he stepped forwards. The fire danced in his eyes. “Then why shouldn’t we just blow your head off right now.”

Tinsley shrugged. “You could.”

“We won’t,” said Holly coolly, but she still looked too pale to be safe. “You can go.”

Tinsley gave her a sidelong look. “I’ll tell my friends to leave this town alone, if your family promise to stay off my back during my investigation. That’s my first and final offer.”

Ricky raised his chin at this, eyes narrowing. “Who the hell do you think you are.”

“Nothing special.”

“Just go,” said Holly, giving Ricky a sharp look. “We’ll leave you alone. On one condition."

Tinsley took a mouthful of tea. "Mm."

"You leave your apparent prejudices aside."

He inclined his head. "Prejudices?"

"Ricky didn't kill the chauffeur," said Holly firmly. "Unfortunately I can't prove it. But he's not lying."

"I don't really believe that."

"I'd willingly give you a list of the people I've directly and indirectly killed over the years," said Ricky flippantly. "Chronologically, alphabetically, I don't care what you find out. But I didn't kill the chauffeur."

Tinsley looked at him for a long moment, watching the man's face redden as the seconds passed, but for once it didn't seem to be because of anger. He saw the man swallow, saw him raise his chin slightly. Tinsley stubbed out his cigarette in the glass ashtray beside him. Then he gave Ricky one last look and said: "Goodnight. Thanks for the tea."

"I'll bring you home, detective," said the Mayor, stepping aside to let him pass. 

Tinsley silently agreed to this. He was exhausted, and the walk back down the hill seemed ten times longer and ten times more dangerous than before. He sat into the car. The Mayor sat into the driver's seat. He'd just started to drive when he slowed, tires crunching on the gravel. Tinsley stayed silent as they were joined by one more person. He couldn't look at him. The car whirred as it pulled away from the house. Ricky lit a moody cigarette, taking a drag before speaking.

"About earlier," he muttered.

"I'd rather not discuss it," said Tinsley just as quietly. 

The car rumbled on solitarily. Tinsley kept his eyes out to sea, his chin resting in his hand. The sea made for a pretty view, but not the prettiest view around. Yet the sea was a view that didn't stare back with wanton black eyes and a smile that made Tinsley's heart skip. So he bit his lip, and stayed silent, and stared at the sea.

“You're tired.”

Tinsley still didn't look at him. He rubbed a hand across his mouth before speaking through his fingers. “No. I'm fine.”

“Then where's the witticisms, hm?”

“I don't know.”

A silence. “Did I scare you?”

“A bit.” Tinsley finally sat back from the window, one hand still resting on the car door, tapping out an agitated rhythm. “ But I've seen my fair share of scares. You're not even in the top three.”

“Sounds like a challenge.”

Tinsley fought the urge to roll his eyes. Then he finally looked at him. His eyes fluttered slightly at the sight. Unfair. It was unfair for one man to be so handsome. Tinsley cleared his throat before saying: “For someone who should be acting manager of this town for the week, you're not exactly a dab hand at it.”

“Tinsley.” The man smiled, one that Tinsley felt in his hip pocket. “Let's not discuss business now. That's for the evening. This is the night.”

Tinsley swallowed hard, trying to disguise it. He shouldn't have looked at the man. He shouldn't have, because now he couldn't tear his eyes away. “Then why the insistence that you accompany me home.”

Ricky shrugged his shoulders, an elbow resting on the car door, his head resting in his hand. His cheeks were surprisingly pudgy, for a man who otherwise seemed to carry no fat at all. Tinsley waited for him to reply. There was nothing. He gritted his teeth, finally looking away. The car pulled up outside Tinsley's apartment, around the corner beside the more secretive entrance. Tinsley's fingers tapped and tapped and tapped. Then he took hold of the car door.

“Well, thanks. I guess.”

“Goodnight.”

Tinsley turned his head to look at him, watching with bated breath as Ricky moved forwards, closing the small space between them to place the softest of kisses against the side of his face. His lashes brushed his skin, light as a dream. Tinsley kept his gaze lowered, his lips parting slightly as Ricky moved back, but not too far. The man smiled an absent-minded smile, his own eyes stuck to Tinsley's mouth. The detective didn't open the car door.

“Perhaps I'll see you tomorrow,” said Ricky quietly, letting his head tilt aside ever so slightly, just enough to achieve the right angle. “Would you like that?”

Tinsley didn't even hear what he said. He just nodded distractedly, but he was already moving forwards. His hand lifted from the car door to the side of Ricky's face to draw him in, and he kissed him. He kissed him hard and slow, feeling Ricky's own hands move to his neck either side, feeling the man's body press up against his. He slipped his tongue into Ricky's open mouth, and the man returned the passion with hot intensity. Tinsley could feel the heat rushing to his face, rushing to another part of his body as he felt a knee slip between his legs. He broke off with a low grunt, turning his head aside. His pulse was thundering; it could probably be heard all over town.

“No,” he muttered, Ricky pausing in trying to resume their kiss. “Not here. Or now. Or ever.”

Ricky pouted, an infuriatingly adorable expression. “Never?”

Tinsley glared at him with hard eyes. Then he pulled him in for just one more, just one, their lips pressing together, then parting, then meeting again, harder, more hungry. Ricky's hand trailed down from Tinsley's neck, under his shirt collar, staying hot against his skin, feeling the racing pulse. He pressed closer as one of the detective's arms wrapped around his waist, fingers digging into his ribs, his other hand sliding down to his hip. Then Tinsley pulled away again like he was ripping off a band-aid. He shoved Ricky off him, shoved open the car door, shoved it closed, and stalked into the building. The slamming door was loud enough to wake the dead.

Ricky sat back with a satiated smile, running a thumb along his bottom lip. The engine growled, and the car pulled away, turning in the quiet street. The Mayor spoke disapprovingly.

“That was a bad idea, Mr Goldsworth.” He couldn't count how many times he'd said that if he had all the fingers in the world. “He's trouble for us.”

“He'll be trouble for my bedsheets.” Ricky leaned forwards between the seats, an arm resting on each one. “That was a smacker. I'll admit it.”

“That's very good, sir.”

“Right in with the tongue. I respect that.”

“It sounds respectable, sir.”

“Take a detour on the way back, will you?” Ricky sat back, lighting up a cigarette, placing it in his mouth where he wished a certain man's tongue was instead. “I think Fran is still on the _Monty_."

* * *

Tinsley slammed the door behind him, leaning back against it, his eyes squeezed shut. He could still feel him; his hands, his mouth, his body pressed close, close enough to be torturously real in his dreams that night. Tinsley shook his head in an attempt to shake some sense loose, finding his way to the drinks. He mixed himself a scotch and soda and drank it quick. He made another, and drank it just that bit slower. It calmed his heart. It didn't do anything for his mind. He could still feel him under his hands, the curve of his waist, the firmness under his fingers. He made one last drink, and lit a cigarette, and perched himself on the arm of the sofa behind him. He sat still. Then he buried his face in his hand with a low groan.

‘“God fucking damn you.” He muttered the words through gritted teeth. “Bastard.”

He paced back and forth, puffing away at his cigarette. He thought about all the things he hated about Ricky Goldsworth. He hated his rich-brat attitude. He hated the way he smiled like he knew exactly when and how the world was going to end. He hated his perfect face, and his eyes so black and deep Tinsley wanted nothing more than to drown in them, even just for one night. He took another long hard drink, mentally cursing the man. But he knew full well that if Ricky knocked on his door that night, he'd let him in in a heartbeat. He'd let him into his apartment, and into his bed, and into his arms. Tinsley swiftly got to his feet, locking and bolting his door, as if it would somehow stop him from opening it. Then he retreated to his bedroom and shut the door. And his dreams plagued him with sly smiles and glittering black eyes and a mouth so hot and hungry it was a nightmare.


	11. A Taste of the Past

Tinsley stood outside the office, chewing on his lip. Maybe he shouldn’t go in. He’d been a bit rude to Darla, really, essentially abandoning her on their date. Then again, she had conspired to murder him in return. He wasn’t sure if that was a normal reaction around here or not. It seemed to be so. He rolled a cigarette around in his fingers, pacing back and forth in front of the door. Further down the street he could just about see the Minister peeking out of the church door, half a shadow. He retreated a bit when Tinsley waved, but the top of his balding head was still visible. Tinsley rolled his eyes, turning back to Fear’s office. He was just about to go in when he heard a cheery _hullo_.

“Ah, Banjo.” Tinsley smiled at him, returning the warm handshake. The chief of police smiled back through his moustache. “Good to see you.”

“I just came to apologise, Mister Tinsley. I didn’t know what was going on last night.” Banjo took his handkerchief from his pocket, taking his hat off to wipe at his forehead. He always seemed stressed, despite being the least shady individual in the town. “I don’t have anything against you, I swear I don’t.”

“I wouldn’t say that too loudly,” said Tinsley with a wink. “Not a popular sentiment around here.”

“You’re a swell fellow, you are.” Banjo smiled at him again, his eyes crinkling. “I like you around here. Bring a breath of fresh air, you do.”

“Thanks.”

“You going into the old Doctor?” The chief chuckled, pulling his waistcoat more firmly down on his round belly. “He’s a character, isn’t he?”

“There’s a fair few of them around here.” Tinsley patted him on the shoulder, a warm gesture. “Maybe I’ll see you later, hm? For a bite to eat.”

“Sounds wonderful.” The chief pottered off down the path, speaking over his shoulder at him. “You stay out of trouble, you hear?”

“I’ll try my very hardest, chief.”

He opened the door to Fear’s office, stepping into the dark reception. The davenport was, thankfully, empty. The bright red and orange roses still sat up on the shelf, the only spot of colour among the mud brown. Tinsley wandered over to the davenport, sparing a glance over both shoulders before snooping around a bit. Nothing interesting. Just a fountain pen, a diary, and a lady’s purse gun with a pearl handle. Darla was not so cutesy after all, it seemed. Then again, everyone in the town seemed to carry some sort of gun. The Mayor held a nice Luger on his belt. Lucy had a full shotgun resting under her desk. Ricky toted around a nice Benetta under his arm. Tinsley took his own gun from its holster, a Smith and Wesson. He rarely had to fire it, and he wasn’t too good at aiming either. But words could be ten times deadlier than bullets, he’d learned. He put the gun back under his arm.

Fear was in his pokey office, tick-tacking away on his typewriter. He frowned indignantly as his door was swept open. “Detective! I’m busy. Go away.”

“I want to know about the Montepulcianos,” said Tinsley, one hand on the door. “What happened to them.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake. You know how to choose your questions, don’t you.” The typewriter trilled as he neared the edge of the paper. He sniffed, taking his cigar from the ashtray on his desk and sucking on it. “Well come in. Sit down. Anyone see you come in?”

“The chief. And Fitzgerald.”

“Pah! The old boot.” Fear muttered under his breath, pulling the small lever with a gnarled finger, pushing the paper back to one side. The tick-tacking started again. “Jesus this and God that. Did you know he carries around a pistol in that Bible? Can’t follow the word of the Lord if there’s a giant chunk cut out, I say.”

“You say correctly.” Tinsley finally lit the cigarette he’d been playing with. “Now, the Montepulcianos. Where are they?”

Fear grinned around his cigar, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “You really want to know?”

“I do.”

“Well you won’t find it in any of my newspapers, big fella.” The typewriter trilled again. He pushed the paper back to the side. “Everyone in this town knows, all the old folks like me saw it with our own eyes. But you won’t find it in any books or papers or on any recording. Not a hope.”

“Well how can I find out?” Tinsley sat down, elbows resting on his knees. “You said that you don’t go around gossiping, but you answer questions if people come to you. I’m here with a question. I’d like you to answer.”

Fear took his cigar from his mouth, exhaling the sour smoke. “Drive out west, towards the next town over. About twenty minutes in the car. You won’t miss it.”

Tinsley tilted his head at this, eyes narrowing as the Doctor went back to his typing. “What if I do miss it. I’ll be burning precious oil.”

“You won’t miss it.” Fear pushed his glasses up along his nose, blinking his beady eyes. They were comically large behind the thick lenses, but were deadly serious nonetheless. “Keep an eye out towards the sea. You won’t miss it, big fella. I promise.”

Tinsley left. He’d barely stepped out onto the street when he was cornered again. The Minister swooped in like a big black crow, feathers ruffled.

“Detective, how are you,” he said, in a voice oh-so-welcoming. “I heard about the other night. Aye, such a monstrosity, that boy. Needs to be quelled.”

Tinsley eyed the Bible that the Minister held so dearly. “Mm. How did you hear about it?”

“Oh Ms Horsley rang me. She trusts me.” He said this meaningfully, raised a bejeweled hand to the golden cross around his neck, if only so Tinsley could see it shine. “Tells me everything. And rightly so.”

“Sure.” Tinsley tipped his hat, stepping around him. “Well if you’re talking to Jesus, tell him to go easy on me. I’ve had a rough few days.”

“That’s not Jesus’ doing, detective.” The Minister slinked along behind him, a distorted shadow. “Nay, that’s the Devil himself.”

“I believe his name is Ricky.”

“You laugh at it, but it’s true. He’s a little antichrist, he is.” The Minister followed him all the way to his car, still holding the Bible close. “He’ll have you before you’re done here.”

Tinsley turned at this, a hand resting on the roof of his car. It was hot under the sun. “He’ll have me, will he? Interesting.”

“He’ll have your head.” The Minister gave a small nod, a duck of his head, before moving away. “I’ll pray hard for you, but I doubt that will do anything now.”

Tinsley watched him go, teeth gritted. He looked at the church up the street, at the pale flag that fluttered from the top. The bells in the tower were silhouetted in the sun. Tinsley went and got himself a coffee before getting into his car. He drove around the block, just to make sure he wasn’t being tailed. Then he set out towards the west.

It didn’t take him long to find it. It loomed along the water’s edge, on the only flat piece of land. It must have been beautiful once. The sun shone through the ruins, soft and caressing. Tinsley parked along the road. He was pretty sure this must be it, although he wasn’t too sure what he was supposed to find out exactly. He got out of the car, moving towards the gates that were still barred, despite the fact there was clearly no one inside. He sipped his coffee, watching the ruins through the bars. It must’ve been a grand house, once. A manor to rival the Goldsworth’s. Its foundations still lay in place, charred black fingers reaching to the heavens. The air was a strange mix of salty sea and smouldering wood and sadness. Tinsley pushed open the gate.

He went down the driveway, past a giant oak that had old fabrics entangled in its thick wooden fingers. The gravel crunched under his feet, the weeds bent. He held his paper coffee cup in both hands, observing the archway that once held a door below it. He decided against going into the roofless hallway. He was curious, of course, but he didn’t want to get accidentally crushed by a blackened brick or two. He circled it, staying as close as he dared. The sea swelled a few hundred metres away, a brilliant blue. Tinsley looked back at his car, just to make sure it was still there. He peeked into a window, seeing a sitting room, a few crumbling couches still intact. He didn’t stay for long. He wasn’t frightened, but this place held a horrible pain over it like a macabre blanket. He went back down the driveway, past the looming oak. 

When he sat back into his car, he was met with a gift. He looked out all the windows, frowning, baffled. The envelope was thick in the centre. He gave it a cautious squeeze. Nothing blew up. He used the pen on the dashboard as a makeshift letter opener, and was met with a pleasant surprise; a wad of cash. He looked around the empty road again, eyes narrowed. He looked at the money again. A treat, a reward for going in the right direction. Payment from his enigmatic employer, maybe. He started the engine. He didn’t look back until the burnt-out house was in the rear view mirror of his car. Then he looked ahead, up the hill, at the manor clinging to the side. He took the turn towards it.

* * *

“And what do you think her most important quality is?”

Ricky shrugged, rolling his eyes behind his book. He despised Holly’s impromptu examinations. “I don’t know. She’s smart.”

“Yes, your mother is smart.” She stirred her gin and seltzer, added a squeeze of lemon juice. “Many of the Goldsworths were smart. None more so than your grandfather. And how is he remembered, hm?”

Ricky lowered his book slightly to look over the top at her. “As a monster.”

“As a monster. Yet his decision was arguably smart.”

Ricky thought about this for a minute. Then he shrugged again. “Sure.”

“So try again.”

He chopped off a breath, closing his book over. “I- She’s fair.”

“Yes, she’s fair. Just, some would say.” Holly spread her thin-fingered hands. “But so was your great-grandfather. All about justice. But you have to remember one thing about justice, Ricky; it gives people what they deserve, but very few people are happy with what they deserve. Justice rarely equates to peace.”

Ricky bit his lip, thinking it over. He sat more upright. “She’s wise.”

“Now, that’s more like it.” Holly smiled, seemingly satisfied. “Lucy is a wise woman. We all know that.”

“Mm.”

“Would you consider yourself wise, Ricky?”

He looked aside, running the back of his fingers along his jaw as he stared into the fire. “I- Well, no. No, I guess not.”

“The fact that you see it is a start.”

“A start to what?”

Holly took another mouthful of her drink, ice clinking. “Your mother won’t be around forever, Ricky. And you’ll have to be ready to take her place.”

Ricky rolled his eyes, getting to his feet. He took out a cigarette, patting his pockets for a lighter. The Mayor appeared with a match, striking it for him. Ricky leaned forwards, getting the tip of the cigarette in the flame. “Thank you.”

The doorbell rang, echoing around the halls. The Mayor jumped to action, slipping out the door. Ricky turned back to face Holly, one hand in his pocket.

“My mom is a long way away from dying, Holly. Don’t be wishing your life away.”

“I’m here to ensure everything in your family runs smoothly,” she said, looking over the frame of her glasses at him. “All down to a T. This is just precaution.”

“It’s a bit too pre-cautious for my liking.” The phone trilled in its receiver. He swiftly answered it. “Mm?”

“It’s the detective, Mr Goldsworth.”

Ricky’s gaze dropped, a smile pulling at his mouth as he remembered the feeling of strong hands holding him close. “Sure. Why not.”

Holly raised her eyebrows. “Who is it?”

“Tinsley.”

“No.” She placed her drink aside, getting to her feet, smoothing down her blouse. “He’s not coming in. I want nothing to do with him.”

“Then you can leave.” Ricky sat back on the couch, legs crossed, an arm hanging over the back. “I’d actually prefer if you left. Three’s a crowd, right?”

Holly shook her head at him, swiping her drink before striding out. She passed Tinsley on the way. She didn’t acknowledge him. She went to her office and kept to herself and her drink and her accounts. The Mayor let Tinsley into the parlour.

“Would you like a refreshment, sir?”

Tinsley was already at the books that wallpapered one side of the room, wandering along them, head tilted aside so he could read the titles more easily. “Sure. Coffee. Thanks.”

The Mayor vanished. Ricky watched the detective strolling along like a tiger watching a deer in the grass. He took a leisurely pull on his cigarette, his head tilting back to let the smoke curl out into the air. 

"You know, there's nothing worse," began Tinsley absent-mindedly, fingers trailing along the hardback books, and the smaller paperbacks that sat between them. "Than a good-looking man who knows he's good-looking."

"I call that not being blind."

Tinsley drew out one of the books, holding it in both hands. It was what he'd been hoping to find; a taste of the past. A photo album. He tipped it open. "Quite the stash of books you have up in this place. But no library in town. Interesting."

Ricky folded his arms on the back of the couch, his back arched in a downright filthy manner. "So very interesting."

Tinsley held the album open in one hand, staring at the man over his glasses. "I'm actually working. If you wouldn't mind."

"If I wouldn't mind what?" said Ricky breezily, resting his chin in his hand. "It's my home."

"Mm." Tinsley flipped through the album, the black-and-white photos behind plastic coverings. "Did you ever meet your grandfather?"

"No." Ricky got to his feet, moving to the drinks cabinet. He mixed two. "Why?"

"He died before you were born, hm?"

"He was murdered," replied Ricky coolly, watching the ice split as he dropped some into one glass, white spidery tendrils. "If you must know."

"Murdered?"

"Shot five times in the chest," said Ricky, turning to face him. He held a drink in each hand. "Just down on Main. About thirty years ago."

Tinsley accepted the drink, their fingers brushing. The chills went through him viciously. "So he wasn't popular."

"He was hated, to be honest." Ricky sat back down, legs crossed, glass resting on his knee. "For a reason."

The detective's eyes brightened like a dog seeing a treat dangled in front of it. "What reason is that, hm?"

Ricky smiled. "I hear you were asking about the Montepulcianos. You went out to their house."

"Nothing's a secret around here, hm?" replied Tinsley in open disapproval. 

"Finally, you get it."

Tinsley looked him over, turning a page in the album. "That was their house?"

"The pile of matchsticks? Yeah."

"What happened to it?"

Ricky took a mouthful of his drink, smiling into his glass. "Tragic accident, I believe."

Tinsley didn't like that response. He looked back at the album, smoothing the plastic, looking at Grandfather Goldsworth's face. It was a hard face, merciless. Black eyes that burned. Not quite as pretty as the one in front of him, but the same feral edge. He tapped the photo with a finger, wandering towards the couch where Ricky was sitting.

"I was told you're like your grandfather," said Tinsley. "What would that entail, hm?"

"Who told you that?"

"Does it matter?"

"Immensely." Ricky held his glass precariously, a finger tapping out a light rhythm against it. His face had lost its smile. "Why are you here, Tinsley?"

"Investigating. Detecting. Privately."

"Sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

"A bad habit of mine." Tinsley closed the album over, the thick pages slapping. "Mind if I borrow this?"

"Would I mind if you borrowed what is essentially a family heirloom? Yes." Ricky stood up, crossing towards the detective, easing the book from his reluctant hands. "Now why are you here."

Tinsley eyed the album wistfully. "I'm not welcome, no? I got the impression that I was _very_ welcome."

Ricky shrugged, carrying the album back over to the shelves. "That was last night. I've changed my mind since."

The detective followed him over to the shelves, arms folded across his chest. "You read a lot, right?"

"I'll answer your multitude of questions when you answer my single one," said Ricky, slotting the album back into place. He gave it a tap. "Which is why are you here."

Tinsley shrugged, leaning against the bookcase. It was a dark wood giant, covering the wall entirely. "Your family is very interesting, Ricky. And they only seem to get more interesting the more I, uh, snoop around."

"Doing a bit of research, are you?"

"I suppose." Tinsley looked at all the books again, all the possible answers to all his burning questions. Some of them appeared very old indeed, tattered at the corners. "No one will tell me, so I might as well find out myself."

"Tell you about what?"

"The Montepulcianos." Tinsley tutted under his breath. "Really piquing my curiosity recently."

Ricky gave him a long look, one hand still resting on the photo album. Tinsley stared back with his quiet eyes, always so soft. Not particularly big or bold, but expressive, and surprisingly gentle. Ricky tapped the photo album again, absent-minded.

"My mom is due home Friday."

"That's good to know."

"Holly's planning a little shindig to welcome her back." Ricky finally moved away from the shelves, sipping at his icy cool drink. "You'll be making an appearance, yeah?"

"If I'm invited," said Tinsley dryly.

"Of _course_ you're invited," replied Ricky with a lax smile, turning on his heel to face him. "Wouldn't be the same without you."

"And there won't be any attempts on my life this time, no?" Tinsley straightened up off the bookshelves, arms still folded with a pinch of attitude. "Have you gotten over your little phase of trying to kill me?"

Ricky shrugged, sitting back down. "That's up to you."

Tinsley watched him closely, staying a safe distance. Every sentence this man spoke was a veiled threat. "Right. Well, I might as well leave, if I can't take anything out of this house."

"Fear told you to go out to the house," said Ricky, a statement rather than a question. "But you didn't see it. Clearly."

Tinsley gave him a suspicious once-over. "I saw it."

"Not the house." Ricky smiled, enjoying the irritation that flickered across the man's face. He wasn't used to missing details, it seemed. "Fear sent you out there because he wanted you to see something he couldn't possibly explain. But he had too much faith in you, it seems."

"Quit the dramatic build-up, Ricky. Spit it out."

Ricky placed his glass aside, and the Mayor appeared as if it was a bell that tolled. He looked Tinsley over as if to make sure he was still in one piece. His pale eyes flickered between the two men. Ricky smiled at him.

"Fancy a drive out to the old house, Mayor?"

The Mayor cleared his throat, looking aside. "I'd rather not, sir."

"Well then, Tinman." Ricky clapped him on the shoulder, a bit too firm to be friendly. "Looks like it'll be just you and me."

Tinsley raised an eyebrow. He debated leaving his gun, and making Ricky do similar. Then he remembered who he was talking to, and knew that Ricky would be able to kill him with or without a gun, and if anything, a gun would be more merciful. He looked at the Mayor for a moment before saying: "I'll drive."

Ricky had already settled in and lit up a cigarette by the time Tinsley got into the car. He lounged with one foot on the dashboard, sunglasses on, their golden corners shining. Tinsley started the engine, reversing back out onto the road.

"I'll admit, you look good in my car," said Tinsley with a wink, taking the lone road that bypassed the town.

"I look good in every car," grinned Ricky. "You just couldn't see last night."

"I don't recall much," he said lightly. "There was your tongue in my mouth, I think. And then you put a gun in my face. And _then_ there was your tongue in my mouth again. Baffling."

"You put a gun in my face too, Tinsley." Ricky spared a sidelong smirk. "Really turned me on, I'll admit."

"Mine was self-defence."

"Great way to end a date; putting a gun to her head." Ricky whistled through his teeth. "Such a charmer."

"I fight when I have to."

"Like a cornered rat."

Tinsley's fingers tapped the steering wheel. "I dont know why I allow myself to spend so much time with you."

"I think you know exactly why."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i keep changing the number of chapters but, in my defense
> 
> 1\. i am a disaster
> 
> 2\. i have the ending planned out, i just have a few steps i need to take before i get there and i havent planned them out quite as neatly so i get there when i get there yknow
> 
> 3\. there will be a part 2 called Blood for Blood (and MAYBE a final part 3 called Blood for Life but I have not decided)
> 
>  
> 
> ALSO also; do y'all have a fav side character in this fic? just bein nosy


	12. Quandary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Quandary: a state of perplexity or uncertainty over what to do in a difficult situation._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a warning: there's a bit of graphic imagery in this chapter? not bloody or anything but just unpleasant. heads up y'all

The car curved out along the road from the manor, but it wasn't the Mayor's car. That was a black Lincoln K. The Minister knew this. He also knew that Ricky himself had a Cadillac V-16, and that Holly Horsley preferred her Ford Model A. Lucy had her Morgan Roadster. This car he could see from the arched entrance to the church was nothing so grand. It must be the detective. What an irritating, sharp, and nosy man. And worse still, a non-believer. He mentally noted the colour and model of the car. Then the Minister tutted, stepping back into the church. He closed the doors over.

He took a few minutes to check that the monstrance was appropriately shined up on the white silk of the altar. He smoothed down his black robe, made sure his clerical collar was tucked in and neat, that the cross around his neck was glowing and the jewels on his fingers shone. He refreshed some of the red wax candles that lined the red carpeted steps up to the cream marble carvings that made up the apse. They always had to be lit, from dawn till dusk and dusk till dawn. Then he said: "You can't sit there."

"I'm an old man, Fitzgerald." 

"That is the altar chair. For the priest." The Minister blew out the long matchstick in his hand, giving the Doctor a disdainful look. "Which you are not."

"You're all hat no cattle." Fear stayed in the chair, his feet barely touching the ground. His body had shrunk in his old age, although his brain hadn't. "What are you nosying at now, hm?"

"The Duke of Limbs." The Minister narrowed his beady eyes at the Doctor. "What did you tell him earlier?"

"Is that why you were lurking outside my office like a little scamp?" Fear sat back with a self-satisfied smile, taking out a fresh cigar. There was a tear at the end, which he attempted to flatten down. "I didn't tell him anything. I just pointed him in a certain direction. It's not forbidden."

"I hope you're not thinking of lighting that in here," said Fitzgerald with a pompous turn up of his nose. He glided back around the altar. "You miser."

Fear just snapped his faded suspenders in response. They held his trousers halfway up his belly. "He wanted to know about the Montepulcianos."

"Ah." The Minister pulled at his clerical collar, looking away. "I see."

"So will the detective."

"He shouldn't." Fitzgerald sniffed. "Some things are best left alone."

"Tinsley is a whirlwind of a man. A right force of nature." Fear tapped his round nose. "He could make a difference around here, he could. If helped along in the right direction."

"Yes, towards the nearest cliff edge." 

Fear grumbled, pushing himself to his feet. "Jesus, takes me an hour to move anywhere now, it does. And I used to be the best dancer around."

"Aye, so you were." The Minister placed his glittering hands on the altar. "But you're an old fool now, so you should stop stirring the pot."

"What are pots for, if not to be stirred, eh?" Fear sneered a smile. "You just don't want the lovely Ms Goldsworth to be disappointed in you."

"Impudent."

"There isn't a hope for you, Fitzgerald. Her son would take your head off with one look." Fear chuckled, teetering down the steps. "And you're ugly."

"Excuse me! You little-"

"But the good Lord saw it fit to be so." Fear snickered, retrieving his walking stick from the front pew. It was a light wood with a marble handle, the fanciest thing he owned. "Praise Jesus, hm?"

"Piss off, you wretched little man. To hell with you."

A beam of daylight fell in as one of the double doors was cracked open. A round moustached face appeared.

"Hullo. Got a minute?"

"Who?" replied Fear over the tapping of his stick. "Me or the nutjob?"

"Both, if you wouldn't mind." Banjo flattened down his waistcoat, sniffing. When he sniffed, his moustache moved like it was alive. "I'm just a bit concerned about the detective."

"A real curse," announced the Minister from his altar.

"No, no, I'm just concerned for his safety. If he stays around." Banjo fiddled with the handkerchief in his pocket. "I was talking to the Mayor - you know the Mayor - and he was talking about Lucy." He went quiet.

"What about Lucy?" demanded Fear, coming to a halt. "She's coming back on Friday, isn't she?"

"Yes, but- but-"

"Spit it out, for goodness sake!" boomed the Minister. "Bumbling idiot."

"It- It didn't work," said Banjo quietly, wringing his meaty hands. "It's- It's still malignant. The doctors said."

Silence settled over the church. Fear turned to stare back up at the Minister, who stared back. He turned to face Banjo again.

"Are you sure?"

Banjo nodded.

"Are you absolutely sure?" repeated Fear, shuffling towards him with urgency. "No doubt at all in your head?"

"It was the Mayor's own words," said Banjo with a small nod. "Malignant."

The Minister clutched at his cross. "Dear God."

"How does that affect the detective?"

Banjo wiped at his face with the handkerchief. "Well- Well- Lucy only has one son now, doesn't she?"

Fear swallowed at this, resting both hands on the handle of his walking stick. "Yes. Yes, one son and heir. Who still doesn't know about her."

"We'll all be tossed into the sea," muttered the Minister. "If we're lucky to die so quick."

"He doesn't mind me," said Fear with a grin. "You're gonna have to watch your back, however. No one in this town will do it for you."

The Minister watched the old man totter out the door. He raised an eyebrow at Banjo. "Well? You're still here?"

"I just-" Banjo took his hat off, his salt and pepper hair ruffled. "What if he wants to replace us? Replace me?"

The Minister shrugged, but inside he was just as anxious as the chief. "Just be on your best behaviour, I suppose."

* * *

They sat in the car, pulled up alongside the rusted gates. Tinsley squinted at the burnt ruins, at the old oak that reached out and up beside it, rotting fabrics swinging. He turned in his seat, looking back down the road. He turned back around, resting an elbow on the car door, chin in his hand. He could just about see Ricky's grin out of the corner of his eye.

"I don't know," he muttered. "I don't know what I'm meant to be seeing."

"Look again."

"We've been sitting here for twenty damn minutes," said Tinsley impatiently, spreading his hands. "And every second spent with you is absolutely awful. So just tell me what I'm meant to be looking for. Or looking at."

Ricky smiled again, infuriatingly smug. He opened the car door, stepping out. "Maybe if I brought you a bit closer."

Tinsley gave him a wary look. Then he got out on his side. It was a warm day. He left his coat in the car. He followed Ricky; the man walked softly enough that it was a surprise he even bent the grass below him. Those were footsteps you wouldn't hear until they were right behind you. Tinsley flicked the safety off on his gun, but left it in the holster.

Ricky tutted as he reached the gate. "You left it open."

"And?"

"It's bad luck to leave it open." Ricky slipped in, stretching leisurely as he wandered off down the gravel driveway. "At least that's what everyone believes."

"I don't have time for superstition," said Tinsley dismissively. "Superstition doesn't lead to truth, does it."

"For someone who's so obsessed with facts and truth, you're very bizarre." Ricky went right up to the charred doorway. "Did you go in?"

"No. And I'm not going to." Tinsley stayed at a distance. "It's unstable."

"It's fine. I used to go in all the time when I was younger." He shrugged, tracing a finger down the blackened brick. It crumbled, sticking to his skin. He rubbed it off against his thumb. "But it's okay. We don't need to go in."

Tinsley checked his watch, pushing his glasses further up along his nose. "How long are we going to be? I want to catch Banjo before his lunch."

Ricky turned on his heel to face him, head tilted. "You still don't see."

"No I don't see," he snapped back, folding his arms across his chest. "And I'm beginning to think you're just fucking me around here."

Ricky stayed up on the steps, one arm behind his back to hold the opposite one. "I'll give you a quick backstory, as my mom told me."

"Right."

"The Montepulcianos were another family." He came down the steps, lax. "Not as important as mine, but important nonetheless. They helped my grandfather with the business, you know how it is."

Tinsley hummed disapprovingly.

"And they were okay with it. For a few years. Then they started getting a bit... confident. A bit too self-important." Ricky nodded behind him as he came closer. "They built this house. Bigger than the manor. Grander. And you can see it from up there, from my grandfather's old room. Mr Montepulciano bought a ship, made it a gambling ship. Just like the one my great-grandfather made. He gave his wife diamonds and rubies and gold, as much if not more than what my grandfather gave his. And then one night, he decided to try and take this town from my family." Ricky shook his head, his eyes very serious indeed. "A mistake, wouldn't you think so?"

Tinsley's gaze flickered to the ruins again. "I would."

"So that same night, my grandfather decided that enough was enough. He gathered whoever he needed, and out they went to the Montepulciano family. But someone had tipped them off, because they were packing to leave." Ricky stepped around the detective, strolling towards the tree. "There were five of them, if I remember right. Mr and Mrs Montepulciano, and their fifteen year old son, and their twelve year old daughter, and then a little baby girl."

"Right."

"So my grandfather doused the house in boat oil, and razed it to the ground," said Ricky simply, gesturing at the evidence. "With them in it. Only they escaped out the side. By then half the town was here to watch. To watch the end." He nodded at the oak tree. "He hung them from this tree. All four of them. The baby was too light to be hanged, so they drowned it. Right over there." He nodded at the swelling sea a few hundred meters away. "And every member of staff was shot dead in this driveway. Every man, woman, and child. Lined up and mowed down." Ricky smiled at the sickly pale face of the detective. "Do you see it now?"

Tinsley swallowed the queasiness in his stomach. He stared up at the tree, at the fabrics that fluttered rotten from the branches. "Is- Is that-"

"My grandfather was going to leave them here all summer," said Ricky, taking a cigarette from the tin in his pocket. "It was a hot summer. But then he was murdered. Assassinated, I suppose. And no one ever took the bodies down."

Tinsley clamped a hand over his mouth, feeling his breakfast threatening to show itself again. He could see it now, up in the branches; bones picked clean by so many beaks, the ropes tattered, threatening to split at any second. He turned away, staring at the gravel driveway, underneath which was the blood of innocents. He was going to vomit. He could feel it burning the back of his throat. But he could also feel Ricky's gaze burning the back of his head, so he kept it down.

"Do you understand now, Tinsley?" Ricky exhaled the smoke from his cigarette, not so smiley all of a sudden. "Do you understand what happens when you cross my family? When you piss us off?"

Tinsley swallowed hard, still able to taste bile stinging his throat. He glared at the man in front of him. "I think the wrong family was killed."

"Maybe so. But right and wrong doesn't matter." Ricky looked back up at the Montepulcianos, or what was left of them. "What matters is having a strong stomach, and being able to see things through till the end." He looked back at the detective, at the hatred in those eyes. "Do you have a strong stomach, detective?"

Tinsley looked at him, at how close he was, and knew he could do it. He could take his gun from its holster, and fire five shots right into his chest. He could die just like his disgusting grandfather. And at this proximity, Tinsley couldn't possibly miss. His fingers twitched.

"You're angry," said Ricky, a cool observation. "Look at you."

Tinsley _was_ angry. He was livid. It suited him, oddly enough; his brows were drawn together in a hard glare, his mouth a hard line, his pointy nose wrinkled slightly. When he spoke, his voice was rough and vehement.

“I’m gonna do something your mother should’ve done a long time ago.”

“Oh yeah? And what's-”

Ricky didn’t get to finish his sentence before the slap hit him with blinding force. It could’ve been heard all over town. His head snapped aside, he stumbled, the cigarette fell from his fingers, and for a second there was a deadly silence. Tinsley’s hand burned, but he let it be; it was a nice sort of burn. He watched as Ricky straightened up slowly, gingerly touching the reddened side of his face, as if the detective had drawn blood. He stared at his hand. Then he looked back at Tinsley with large eyes, large in the same way a cat’s are before it pounces.

He was moving before he even began the sentence. “You son of a fucking-”

He went at Tinsley with teeth and claws, cursing him to hell and back. They tumbled to the ground, locked together in a furious tangle, rolling once, twice, three times, until Ricky put a foot out to stop them rolling anymore. He sat astride the struggling detective, a hand on his chest to hold him down. He rolled up his sleeves, wrapped Tinsley’s tie around his hand, hauled the detective’s head and shoulders off the floor, and simply went to town. He punched him across the face once, twice, three times, he hit him until blood appeared. Then he kept hitting him, his own knuckles beginning to sting. His eyes were black as an animal's.

He didn't hear the gravel crunching under feet. The Mayor hurried down the driveway, catching hold of Ricky by the collar of his shirt. Fran had to help him. They positively dragged him off Tinsley, ignoring his furious struggles. His hand was stained with blood, his blood, Tinsley's blood. Fran hurried to the detective.

"Are you alright?" she breathed, giving his shoulders a shake. She wasn't even sure if he was conscious. "Detective? Tinsley?"

Tinsley pushed himself onto his front with tremendous effort, spitting blood onto the gravel, his head hanging. His face was bloodied; a gash opened below his eye, blood smeared from the corner of his mouth into his beard, scratch marks on the other cheek, on his neck. He didn’t speak for a long moment, shoulders rising and falling with each panted breath. Then he just set his elbows on the ground, glared over his shoulder and hotly said: “You fight like a bitch.”

Ricky positively hissed at him, his cheek still red. It felt like he'd been whipped. He allowed the Mayor to guide him away, to sit him into the passenger seat of the car. The Mayor got into the driver's seat.

"Your hand, Mr Goldsworth."

Ricky glared straight ahead, putting his hand out in the vague direction of the Mayor. He knew his knuckles were probably split, but each punch had been worth it. The Mayor cleaned his hand and bandaged it up, wrapping the fabric around his fingers with the expertise of a professional medic. It wasn't the first time he'd done this for Ricky. But he didn't mind, for once. If the detective had been nosying around the Montepulcianos, then it would only be a matter of time until he came to the truth. 

* * *

Tinsley sat in his office, an ice pack pressed to his eye. His free hand rested on the desk, clenching into a fist over and over. A baby girl. Drowning a damn baby. He scribbled some figures down on the notepad in front of him. If Grandfather Goldsworth was killed the same year he murdered the Montepulcianos, then it all happened thirty years ago. Which made Lucy about twenty. The Mayor must've been about thirty-five. It made the Minister about twenty as well. Banjo would've been around about ten, give or take. Fear would've been forty or fifty. They all must've seen it, must've let it happen. He lit a cigarette behind his hand, even though holding it hurt his bust lip. He took out the file on the chauffeur again, reading it and re-reading it. There wasn't a doubt in his mind now that Ricky had killed him. He was a man put on this earth to kill, and that was that.

He looked up at the knock on his door. He didn't need to guess who it was; the round shape was visible through the frosted glass. "Come in."

Banjo came in. He stood aside to let Fear shuffle in behind him. The Minister glided in, Bible held close. The door shut. The three men observed the room; nervous, curious, and disdainful respectively.

"What happened to you?" asked Banjo, taking his hat off. He sounded genuinely concerned. "Looks sore."

Tinsley sat back, dropping the ice pack onto his desk. "Sit."

They moved forwards. The Minister dusted his chosen chair off before sitting. It was clear he wasn't used to sitting on furniture that wasn't plush with velvet. Fear sat with his old hands resting on the top of his walking stick. Banjo held his hat on his lap like a schoolboy about to be scolded. Tinsley observed them all coolly, legs crossed in a figure four.

Fear cleared his throat. "Not going to offer us a drink, hm?"

"I wish I had some for you," said Tinsley, tapping his cigarette into the black ashtray on the desk. "But it's a bit early in the day for me."

The Minister reddened at this, but he stayed quiet. Banjo cleared his throat in the silence.

"I understand that there's some rules around here," said Tinsley, waving his hand vaguely. The cigarette in it left a line of smoke in the air. "Rules that I don't particularly like. But I let them slide."

"How kind of you," said Fear, lighting a half-smoked cigar.

"This might actually concern you the most, Doctor." Tinsley picked a newspaper off his desk, one from thirty years ago. He tossed it across the desk at him. "Quiet year for the news around here, it seemed."

Fear put out a hand, taking the newspaper. He settled his thick glasses on his nose. "Mm. I guess."

"You shouldn't have to guess. You wrote it."

"Well then yes, it was a quiet year for the news," grumbled Fear, putting the paper back down.

"Is that an agreed-upon statement, fellas?" Tinsley spread his hands, but his face didn't match the nonchalance. "A quiet year, hm?"

Banjo spared a sidelong look at the two older men. "I- I was very young. I don't remember."

"Alright." Tinsley spun his chair slightly so that he was facing the Minister. "And what about you, Fitzgerald? Were you too young to remember?"

The Minister pressed his wrinkled lips in a line. "To remember what?"

"Don't play stupid. I know all three of you are sharp as bedamned, although you all play your parts well." Tinsley took a drag on his cigarette, watching their faces go red, whether in embarrassment or shame or anger, he didn't care. "I'm sure your owners are very proud of you. But right now, in here, in my office..." He tapped the desk between them. "You'll tell me the truth. Is that clear?"

Fear sucked on his cigar, but his eyes were big and perturbed behind his glasses. "The truth about what?"

"I'm not going to go into specifics, because it's a waste of breath on my part." He got to his feet, a hand in his pocket, the other still holding the smouldering cigarette. "Were any of you there?"

The three men stared back. Then Banjo squeaked out: "Yes."

"Shut up, you fool," snapped the Minister.

"We were there," said Fear, clearing his throat before continuing. "I was one of the first there."

"And why's that."

"Because I tipped them off," he replied with a righteous nod. "I saw the Goldsworth posse go past, and I rang that poor family and told them to head for the hills."

"But they didn't make it."

"No." Fear lowered his gaze. "I was too late." He went quiet. "Keeps me up at night."

"You didn't kill them, Doctor. You just made sure they were forgotten."

Fear kept his eyes down. The redness of his face was definitely shame.

Tinsley moved on, staring at the Minister. "I was looking at a photo album up in the Goldsworths. You were in it."

Fitzgerald raised his bushy eyebrows in vague interest. "Oh? Well yes. I was a priest back then, as I am now. That's how it works."

"Were you always as desperate to please the family as you are now?"

"Am I desperate to survive, you mean? Yes."

Tinsley narrowed his eyes at him. "Who drowned the baby."

Banjo positively shrunk at the sentence. His hat crumpled in his hands. He rocked back and forth slightly. Even Fear shook his head in horror.

"Who drowned the baby," demanded Tinsley, looming over the Minister. "If anyone knows, it'd be you. Who drowned the child."

The Minister finally cracked. His voice was watery. "The Mayor. Under Mr Goldsworth's orders. He drowned the baby. The little baby girl."

Tinsley froze, his eyes widening. "The Mayor? The Mayor that's there now?"

"One and the same," said Fear quietly, still shaking his head. "He took the little dote away, and we never saw her again."

"She had little black curls," whimpered Banjo, wringing his hat like it was the neck of his memories. "She was so small."

"The Mayor will do anything that accursed family says," muttered Fear, his face hard and angry. "And more. He's a loyal man, but he's just in the wrong hands." 

"When did Mr Goldsworth decide-"

"Mr Goldsworth?" The Minister shook his head. "No, he didn't make the decision. It was his wife. She was Satan in a frilly skirt."

Tinsley shook his head with a disgusted tut. "Of course. Behind every great man, hm?"

He went back around to his side of the desk, but he didn't sit. He left his cigarette in the ashtray before leaning forwards, hands pressed to the desk. The three men waited for him to speak.

"I told you before, Fitzgerald; I don't have a temper, but I do have a limit. This is it. This is my limit." He pointed at them. "You've colluded in censoring and lying and helping this massacre be forgotten. You've not only failed to report a crime, but you've participated in active concealment of a crime. Each of you are an accessory. Do you understand how serious that is?"

The Minister pursed his lips. "Well what are you going to do about it, detective? You can't arrest us. And now that you know about the Montepulcianos, you won't be leaving this town."

"Looks like you already got a taste of what it's like to live here," said Fear, eyeing the detective's bruised face. "Lucy is a good one, Tinsley. For a Goldsworth, she's good. When her father died they rang the bells from dawn til dusk, and she was goddamn applauded when she appeared in public for the first time."

"Her son's reign won't be so celebrated," said the Minister under his breath. "Aye, a bloody tyrant he is."

"I told you," said Fear, tapping the desk with a hard, gnarled finger. "He's like his grandfather. And hopefully he'll die the same way but sooner."

"Wouldn't that be sweet." Tinsley observed each of them, letting them squirm for a minute. "So she _is_ dying."

The Minister clutched the cross around his neck. "Aye. She's dying."

"I thought she had an operation."

"They removed a lung," said Banjo, looking up at him. "But that's the type of operation you can only do once. It spread to the second lung."

Tinsley lowered his gaze, looking at the desk. A sliver of sunlight fell through the slatted blinds, making the dust all the more obvious. He ran a finger through it, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together pensively.  "How much longer?"

Banjo shrugged awkwardly. "I don't know. Maybe no one knows."

"No one wants Ricky with all that power," said Fear. "The families in the other towns despise him. This town hates him. The day Lucy passes could mark the end of all of us."

"And the end of the Goldsworth family," said the Minister, dusting his Bible off. "Seeing as Ricky is a homosexual too."

"Too?"

Fitzgerald glanced at him. "I- I had heard that you are a homosexual man. I apologise if I'm incorrect."

"You are," said Tinsley dismissively. He sat down, legs crossed. He folded his hands on his knee, deep in thought. "And there's no Goldsworth cousins? No distant relatives?"

"No. Just Ricky." The Minister shrugged. "Lucy used to have a brother, but he passed away young. Tragic. Never had children."

Tinsley didn't speak for a long while. Then he looked at them and said: "You can go. Thanks." A pause. "Not you."

So Banjo stayed. He sat back down, absent-mindedly trying to straighten his hat out. He hummed. He might need a new one. He lifted his head as Tinsley disappeared under his desk, coming back up with two glasses and a bottle of scotch. He poured two out, pushing one across the desk to the chief. Banjo raised an eyebrow at it, his bottom lip pushing out. He wanted to take it, but he wasn't sure what was going on either.

"It's not a test," said Tinsley, sitting back. He sipped his own drink. "I just like you more than the other two."

Banjo smiled behind his moustache. He picked up the drink and took a mouthful. "So it's not too early in the day for you, no?"

"It was. Until I heard what I just heard." He pushed his cigarettes across the desk. Banjo took one. "And you were ten, were you?"

"Twelve."

"The same age as the daughter."

Banjo nodded, and his face grew strained. "She was a friend of mine. We used to play together."

"I'm sorry."

He took another mouthful of his drink, bigger this time. He swallowed it without flinching. "I think you should leave, detective. Leave this town while you can. Once you're stuck here, you're stuck. Forever."

Tinsley gave him a long look. "I'm going to change that."

"Huh?"

"I'm going to change that," he repeated just as firmly. "I'm going to change everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lucy is basically that mom from family feud where she's like "I'm a stay-at-home mom, but i'm about that money, so, i do sell drugs"
> 
> also here's ricky and tinsley's relationship in a clip: https://youtu.be/VMb-su4DZTQ?t=12
> 
> actually ricky is basically just tammy 2


	13. Back to Basics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to this track on repeat while writing this to try and get that Shady feel so I feel like I should credit it 
> 
> https://youtu.be/ESZdsDcIRGU

The window was fogged up, cold to the touch. He wiped the back of his hand against it, making himself a window within the window. He put the cigarette back in his mouth, puffing at it morosely. He’d mixed himself a hot coffee with a dash of whiskey, and he took a sip, the liquid burning his tongue. He let it sit a while before swallowing. He sat in his office, long legs crossed, still watching the street outside. He had the window open an inch, just to listen to the soft breeze, the surf lapping quietly only across the road. The water looked like ink. He couldn’t see that far out to sea; the two gambling ships were silent, glowing softly. The fog hid the horizon from him, pale like the steam from his mug. Something wasn’t right. He sipped his coffee, opening the file again. He’d started his own ones, if only for future reference. One for Lucy Goldsworth, one for Holly Horsley, one for Francesca Norris, and one for Ricky Goldsworth. This was the one he had open, observing the typed letters with quiet eyes.  _Assault, blackmail, resisting an executive officer, attempted murder, conspiracy to murder, murder._ He had them all under his belt. An expert in his field.

He got to his feet, pacing back and forth. He was restless. Someone passed his door. He hid the files he was keeping. The Goldsworths probably wouldn't appreciate such files, and Tinsley wouldn't appreciate his head being removed from his shoulders. He paced again. He toyed with his coffee and cigarette. Then he shrugged his coat on and went out to try and discover the source of his restlessness.  

Tinsley went down the steps outside the station and drifted off down the street, following an indistinct path until he could hear the wash of the surf licking at the fog, low down at the bottom of the pebbled beach. There wasn’t a gleam of light anywhere. He could see a dozen trees clearly at one time, another dozen dimly, then nothing at all but the fog. He stayed on the spongy moss; the pebbles would be a bit too loud for his liking. A little in front of him, a man coughed. Tinsley stopped walking. His steps hadn’t made any sound on the soft moist turf. The man coughed again, then stifled the cough with a handkerchief or a sleeve or a gloved hand. While he was still doing that, Tinsley moved forward closer to him. He was a vague shadow close to the pebbles, almost as tall as Tinsley. The man turned his head. His face was indistinguishable. Tinsley cleared his throat, casual.

“Evening.”

His voice carried through the fog, but he didn't get a response. The figure walked away and melted into the fog. Tinsley didn't risk following. Something wasn't right. He turned and looked back down the beach. A blurred figure was standing on the dimly-lit boardwalk. Tinsley headed back towards it.

* * *

Ricky could just about see the lighthouse from where he was. The wooden rail along the edge of the boardwalk was wet with the fog. The fog dripped from the silent shopfronts that shadowed off into nothing towards the boardwalk above the ocean. He could see a scant dozen feet in any direction. He took out a cigarette, but hesitated as he went to light it. There was something wrong. Ricky put the cigarette away and shut the tin. Its _click_ was loud enough to shake the sea. He could see a tall figure gradually growing sharper through the fog, coming along the pebbles. The crunching of footsteps seemed closer than they were. Ricky tilted his chin up, unbuttoning the top few buttons of his coat, slipping a bandaged hand in to relocate his gun from its holster to his pocket. The figure came up the wooden steps to the boardwalk, hands in his coat pockets. Ricky watched him. He knew who it was. And he knew that Tinsley knew who he was. They stared at each other like two tomcats on a wall. Tinsley's hand moved in his pocket, no doubt on a gun.

“Evening, detective.”

“Evening, asshole.”

“Touchy.” Ricky grinned at him, resting back against the rail, elbows propped on it. "How's the whole face? I personally think the eye suits you. Very rugged."

"Piss off."

"Don't toy with me, Tinsley. I know what you're into now." Ricky smiled again, tilting his head aside in a playful manner. "Don't think I didn't feel it."

"Feel what."

Ricky leaned forwards, hands still holding the rail behind. "You were hard as a rock, Tinsley. You've got some fucked-up kinks, don't you."

Tinsley turned his head aside, then behind him, checking for any listeners. "You imagined it."

"Oh I definitely did not." Ricky bit his lip as he looked him over from under his lashes. "Mm. And it's good to know everything's in proportion."

"You imagined it," muttered Tinsley, keeping his gaze averted as the other man came right up to him.

Ricky wrapped a hand around the back of the taller man's neck, drawing him down to whisper the words right in his ear. "I'm gonna sit on it, and I'm gonna ride you into the damn sunset."

Tinsley closed his eyes, his fists clenching in his pockets. His hand fidgeted a bit more on the gun. He moved on with more harshness to his steps than before. Ricky leaned on the wooden railing, watching him go. He grinned to himself, running his thumb and forefinger along his jaw to meet at his chin. Then he followed with a skip to his step.

* * *

Darla swung her bag by her side as she wandered down Main, attempting nonchalance, if in futility. Fear had kept her on too late; it didn't matter to him, seeing as he lived above the shop. At least she didn't have too far to walk. The air was too cold. The fog was too thick. The light outside the station sat and loomed over her as she passed below, her shadow stretching like a monstrous creature. It was a perfect night for something to be wrong. Darla bit her lip, glancing over her shoulder. The street seemed empty, as far as she could see, which wasn't far at all. She opened the clip on her bag, took out her purse gun. She pushed the safety off with her thumb. Through a gap between buildings she could see a figure on the boardwalk. She wondered why they were there. Certainly not to see the view. It was too late for shops to be open.

The clicking of hurried heels made her pause, turning her head. Someone was coming down the hill, from the apartment near the bottom. The woman spotted her, coming to a halt. She stood there motionless, a grey fur coat held tight around her throat with an ungloved hand on which a ring made a faint glitter. The heels kept running, however. More distant. Darla chewed on her lip, running her thumb over the smooth pearl handle of her gun.

“Good evening, Miss Delaney,” said the grey-coated figure.

Darla relaxed, but not fully. “Good evening, Ms Horsley.”

They went on their separate ways.

* * *

The Minister closed the doors after him, taking out his iron ring of keys and locking them. The sound echoed. He could hear a woman's heels clicking in the fog. He glanced around in time to see her fleeing down the street in her heels, her hair shining even in the fog. He frowned, but didn't bother following. Across the road he watched as the Doctor tugged his curtains closed in his flat above the shop. The Minister checked his watch as best he could. It ticked and tocked on his wrist. _It's not too late,_ it whispered. He wasn't sure what it wasn't too late for. As he pondered this, he heard the voices, low and snarled. He descended the steps in silence, floating off in their vague direction. He couldn't quite decipher what was being said; it was two men, angry, familiar. Then they went quiet. The Minister rubbed a hand over his Bible. The weight of the gun inside was comforting.

He glanced down the alleys as he strolled along, a shadowed figure, a black ghost. He paused when he saw them; two figures entangled against the alley wall. At first he thought they were fighting. Then he noticed they were grabbing and grasping, their mouths glued together, aggressively passionate, their moans low and rough. The Minister mentally tutted before carrying on into the fog. He preferred this weather. Every immoral being does. He glanced down towards the beach, or at least where he knew the beach was. The owner of the heels was still hurrying; he could just about see her along the edge of the road. He altered his course.

* * *

Banjo leaned forwards, holding the wheel more tightly. He'd always been a nervous driver, and fog as thick as cotton candy didn't help. The headlights cut through it as best as they could. The beach should be coming up along his right at any time. He passed a few figures as he drove; a tall man and a grey-coated woman side-by-side, a black drifting shadow, a woman who was hurrying as best as she could in her high shoes. Banjo debated pulling over to help her, but he didn't. He had bags of groceries and the ice cream was probably melting already.

He whistled as he drove, parking in the station's small lot. He tottered across the street with his bags, going towards his apartment. He made himself hurry a bit; the fog was unpleasantly thick, and he didn't appreciate the shifting shadows that lurked in his periphery. He took out his key to his apartment, cursing as he dropped one of the bags. The sound that rang out was unnatural. He stared at the plastic of his bag, wondering if it had popped. He leaped a mile in the air as two more loud bangs rang through the fog.

“Oh no,” he mumbled, dropping his other bag. “Oh Lordy.”

A window scraped up. “Eh? What was that?”

Banjo jumped at the Doctor's voice. “I- I don't know!”

Footsteps pounding pavement reached them. Two shadows with flapping coats came out of the fog, the taller one holding his hat to his head. Ricky stopped when he reached the chief, panting for breath. Tinsley caught up a few seconds later.

“Well?” Ricky searched the chief's wide eyes. “What was that?”

“It was gunshots,” said Tinsley dryly, subtly trying to catch his breath. “Obviously.”

Ricky ignored him, staring up and down the street. “From where? Far?”

“Yes, far!” said Fear, watching lights gradually flicking on up and down the street. “Sounded way away, it did!”

They turned as the knelling bell reached them, slow and loud and sad. It carried through the air, turning on lights as it passed. Tinsley moved first. He hurried across the street, hearing the other two follow immediately. He ignored the Doctor demanding from his window to be brought along. Tinsley took the steps to the church two at a time, Ricky bounding after him, Banjo puffing and panting. A small crowd was beginning to gather, people in pajamas and nightgowns and dressing robes, slippers shuffling. A voice rose above the mumbles, above the ringing bell.

“Detective! Detective Tinsley!”

He turned as he took off his hat, searching the crowd for the voice. Eyes were glued to him expectantly. “Yeah?”

A different voice replied, an older one. “What happened? What was the bangs?”

Tinsley stared at the impatient crowd. They were waiting for an answer. From him. He glanced at Ricky, who was glaring right at him, daring him to reply. Tinsley looked back at the crowd, running a hand through his hair, wondering exactly what to say. If he should say anything.

“I don’t know yet. But I'll know soon.”

He brushed past the fuming Ricky and into the church. A few of the red wax candles had gone out, smoking silently. The clanging bell was quieter in here. The Minister was nowhere to be found.

“How do you get to the bell?” asked Tinsley, unbuttoning his coat with one hand. “He’s really going mad with it.”

“This way.” Banjo ambled off towards the back door.

The Minister was alone in the dark tower, pulling at the bell rope, the sound deafening. His back was to them, his head ducked. He didn't turn, even as the door fell shut with a slam. Ricky called his name. The ringing slowed to a halt.

“Fitzgerald?” Now that the man wasn't pulling at the rope, Tinsley could see he was shaking. He could hear him crying quietly. “What happened?”

The Minister turned to look at them. Tinsley reflexively put a hand over his mouth. Banjo let out a whimper. Ricky seemed altogether unfazed, observing him with cool eyes. The Minister raised his shaky hands, palms up, staring the the blood on them. There was blood splattered across his face, a few drops on the white of his clerical collar.

“Nothing,” he whispered. “Nothing happened.”

Tinsley stepped forwards, his face hard. “Fitzgerald, if you-”

“He said nothing happened.” Ricky flicked open his cigarette case, gaze lowered as he took one out and put it between his lips. “And you're going to say the exact same thing. Alright?”

Banjo got half a sentence out before Ricky's glare sent him scarpering. Tinsley watched the chief go, the disappointment heavy in his chest. The Minister eventually followed, dazed, as if in a dream. The door swung shut after him with a resounding bang. Tinsley stared at the door, his gaze sad, lowered. He turned at the sound of a match striking. The flame illuminated Ricky's pretty features, the devil balancing a halo on his horns. Tinsley set his jaw.

“You know what happened.”

“How would I know what happened?” said Ricky, waving out the match, the smoke curling into the air like ink in water. “I was occupied. As you know.”

Tinsley gritted his teeth. His lips still burned, his hand still stung from the scrape against the alley wall. “You might have the rest of them trained like dogs, but I'm going to tell this entire town what I find.”

“I'd really think twice about that.”

Tinsley shook his head with a mutter, striding over to the stone balustrade to look out over the sea. The pebbled beach was hidden, but there was a pair of muggy headlights winding along the coast road. They turned away from the town, curving up towards the manor, which was nothing but a small gathering of lights in the mist. Tinsley exhaled sharply, fingers digging into the stone.

"Your family is the scum of the earth, Ricky Goldsworth."

"Don't be like that." Ricky joined him at the balustrade, but he wasn't looking at the town. He was looking at Tinsley. The pale light had his sharp features painted in grey and black. "You don't even know what they've done yet."

"I know everything your fucking family has done. And your rotten butler."

"And who told you about our rotten butler?" Ricky tapped his cigarette out over the balustrade, leaning over to watch the sparks fall. "The Mayor is a gentleman."

"The Mayor killed a child."

"The Mayor did what he was told. Which is his job."

Tinsley gritted his teeth in a grim smile. "I've known a lot of bad people in my life, Ricky. But I can truly say that you're the worst man I have ever had the misfortune to meet."

"You weren't saying that twenty minutes ago." Ricky smiled, cigarette held between his teeth. He watched the detective stride back across the space, under the silent bell. "Oh don't get sulky. C'mon. Where are you going."

Tinsley slammed the door behind him. He hurried down the winding stone steps, breezing through the door at the bottom and back out into the church itself. The Minister was sitting silent on the carpeted steps, gaze distant as the chief tried his very best to wipe the blood off with his handkerchief. The front pew was occupied by a wrinkled face.

"What happened?" asked Fear, attempting to stand up as Tinsley passed by. "What-"

"I'm going out to the beach," said Tinsley, cutting across him like a hot knife through butter. "You can follow if you want, but if it's with an ulterior motive, don't bother."

He drove out to the beach, readjusting his rear view mirror. It wouldn't be long until a pair of headlights followed, and that could only be one of the small group of people who owned a car in this town; Ricky, Horsley, the Mayor, Fran, Banjo, and Fitzgerald. No other cars seemed to exist. No one was allowed out. The town was a prison.

He parked along the beach, dimming his own headlights. He sat for a moment, watching the fog roiling on the stones. It seemed to be getting thicker, heavier. He retrieved his flashlight from between the seats. He checked his gun was loaded, keeping the safety off. He took his licence from the holder, hiding it away. He didn't need any passersby poking around and finding his name. Then he checked the empty rear view mirror once more, and got out of his car.

He crossed the soft mossy ground to the pebbles, shining his flashlight from one side to the other. It was about as useful as trying to cut concrete with scissors. He stepped down onto the stones, listening to the waves licking over them a few feet away. He looked from side to side, brows knitted. He fetched a penny from his pocket, flipping it, catching it. He turned right and started walking.

He came upon her ten minutes later. She was lying on her front, half-turned, the waves picking at her blonde hair, gradually drawing the red from it. Her eyes were open, but they weren't seeing. Her fingers were splayed on the pebbles. Tinsley crouched down beside her, shining the torch over her. She wasn't in her uniform; the Monty was closed this evening due to the weather. He doubted she would've made it anyway. She had two bullet holes in her back, and one in the side of her head. The one in her head had left scorch marks on her skin; it was a close shot. Tinsley closed her eyes before looking back up at the manor and its softly glowing eyes. There were headlights coming along the road. Tinsley shut off his flashlight, drawing his gun, holding it by his side. The car parked alongside his, rumbling to a halt. The three voices reached him, none of them particularly welcome in this moment.

"Can you see him?"

"I can't see anything, you oaf."

"He's around." The purred voice made Tinsley hesitate in putting his gun away. "Either of you have a light?"

Tinsley flashed his on and off. "I'm here."

Ricky reached him first, emerging from the fog like a demon from the flames, cigarette glowing in his mouth. Banjo followed, helping Fear stay steady on the sliding pebbles. Ricky inclined his head at the dead waitress. He nudged her with his foot. Tinsley watched his face closely; he did seem genuinely surprised, but that didn't mean much. Banjo swallowed loud enough for them all to hear.

"Well." Fear cleared his throat, still holding onto the chief beside him for balance. "What happens now, detective?"

"I know what happens now," said Ricky, still looking at the Waitress. "You three go home, and forget what you've seen."

Tinsley crouched down beside her again, pulling on his gloves before searching her pockets. He heard Ricky tell them to wait in the car. The chief led the Doctor away, back up to steadier ground. Tinsley found her purse, putting his flashlight on it. He checked her address. He took the cash that was in the purse and pocketed it.

"Well isn't that just-"

"I have more need of it than she does," said Tinsley. "Why are you still here."

"To make sure you don't get any rash ideas."

"Rash ideas are your forté, Ricky. I actually think my actions through."

Ricky watched the man work, puffing at his cigarette. He turned the switchblade in his coat pocket. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to go to her apartment and-"

"Let's try that again," said Ricky, dangerously soft. "What are you going to do."

Tinsley turned his head to glare up at him over his shoulder. Then he straightened up, turning to face him as he did so. "Nothing of your concern."

"One more try."

Tinsley raised his hand, and pressed the barrel of the gun to the middle of Ricky's forehead, almost right between his eyes. "How about you leave. Now."

Ricky stared at him, not even sparing a glance at the gun. "You're getting cocky, aren't you."

"Get into your car, and go home," said Tinsley, letting the gun click ominously. "And don't even think about taking that toy from your pocket and having a go at me. I'll empty this pistol right into your rotten skull."

Ricky raised his hands in a manner so flippant it was insulting. Tinsley eyed the bandaged one. "Fine. Don't get upset on me."

Tinsley didn't put the gun away until the car had turned and whirred away back towards town. He took a moment to steady himself. Then he dragged her body further from the water, up onto the grass, averting his gaze from the bloody streak she left on the way. Then he got into his own car and left.

He passed by the church. The doors were open, the stained glass looked wet in the candlelight. A few people still hung around in their nightclothes. He passed Doctor Fear’s office, the building old and creaking as if it was breathing. The lighthouse sat far in the fog, its light sweeping in slow circles. A coated figure stood on the boardwalk, an umbrella up against the rain that had started to blow in. It seemed to be watching him. Faces were pale in windows, young and old. The manor sat atop the cliffs above like a bird of prey, windows glowing softly in the dark like so many eyes. He kept going.

He got to her apartment in minutes. The door to number 15 was forced open, wood splintered around the lock. He took his gun from under his arm, stepping into the apartment. It wasn’t particularly large. He went for the light switch, but he didn’t make it. A rustle of clothing, and he was struck across the head with something much too heavy to ignore. Tinsley fell against the wall, landing heavily on the floor on his side. He didn’t move. The shadow drifted out the door. It closed the door after it with a gloved hand. Tinsley didn’t move.


	14. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Revelation: a surprising and previously unknown fact that has been disclosed to others._

Ricky woke slowly, pushing himself off the bed with a groan. He heard the tray rattling as the Mayor passed by on his way to Lucy’s room with her breakfast and paper. She had arrived home in the middle of the night, quite secretly indeed. The Mayor would go into her room and say _it's seventy-thirty, ma'am,_ and place the breakfast tray on her lap, and fluff the pillows up behind her head. At eight-thirty Holly would arrive with the most recent news from out of town; perhaps good, perhaps bad. The clouds hung low outside, peaceful. He reached down the bed, taking the light dressing gown off the end and shrugging it on. He lit a cigarette, accepting the coffee that a maid brought to him. Then he went down the corridor, poking his head into her room.

“Morning, _mamá_.”

“Good morning, _mi tesoro_.” She smiled over her paper, pushing her glasses further up along her nose. She looked pale. He blamed it on the light. “How did you sleep?”

“Good.” He went into her room, right over to the bed with its embroidered duvet and sturdy oak bedposts, and flopped down beside her. The tea cup and ceramic teapot rattled on the tray. “Who came in so late last night? It was like, two in the morning.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I actually don’t know. Did you hear someone?”

“I think so. Maybe I was dreaming.” He took the ashtray from the bedside table, tapping his cigarette into it. “I didn’t get the chance to say it yet, but I’m glad you’re home.”

She smiled, cupping his face gently. “I’m glad too. And you need to shave.”

“I will.” He rolled his eyes, flopping onto his back. “Where did you go, anyway?”

“Oh, just down the coast. Business.”

“Always business,” he grinned playfully. “Well I missed you. And Holly missed you. And the Minister definitely missed you.”

“Ricky,” she said disapprovingly. “Don’t spread filth.”

“He likes you, _mamá_.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Pity he doesn’t like me.”

“What do I always tell you? If you don’t like someone-”

“-replace them. I know.” He took a pull on his cigarette, staring at the ceiling. “Can’t replace someone who won’t leave, though.”

She gave him a sidelong look. “The detective?”

“Mm.”

She lifted up his bandaged hand, raising an eyebrow. “I hear you’ve been getting a bit… embroiled with him.”

Ricky threw her a wry look. “It’s just a bit of fun. Nothing serious.”

“I keep telling you, be careful with men like him.”

“I am!” He rolled onto his front, chin resting in his hand. “He’s handsome though, isn’t he?”

“Unfortunately.”

“And funny.” Ricky’s gaze was distant. “If only he wasn’t who he is.”

“Even then, I’d be against it.” She turned the page of her paper, giving it a small shake to stop it from folding. “You can do better.”

“I know. But it’s just fun.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek before getting off the bed, the tray bouncing precariously on Lucy’s lap. “I’m going out for a while. I’ll see you later.”

"Stay safe." She sounded sad.

He stopped by the phone in the hall, giving it a long look. He glanced up and down the hallway. It was empty of any black-and-white figures. He picked up the phone and spun in Tinsley’s office number. It rang out. He frowned, dialing his apartment. It also rang out. He dialed the church.

“Fitzgerald,” came the proud voice. He had seemingly recovered from what he'd seen the night before.

“It’s Ricky. Is Tinsley with you?”

“No, afraid not,” he replied. “I saw him late last night. Aye, very late. Midnight.”

“Going where?”

“Just driving down the street. I assumed he was going to the manor.” He hummed. “I didn’t see him return. Odd.”

Ricky scowled. A rogue Tinsley was a dangerous thing. “Track him down, will you? Keep us updated. Do your job.”

He hung up, quickly getting dressed and hurrying outside. He drove downhill, a scowl still on his face. He didn’t like not knowing where the detective was. It was unsettling, like any moment he'd turn up behind him with yet another secret he'd unearthed. He slowed at the turn onto Main, spying an apartment with its curtains still drawn and its lights still on. He pulled over, parking sloppily. The street was dark with rain. The police station was quiet, one of its doors propped open. He saw a round figure totter out.

“Banjo!”

The chief seemed confused at his own name. He looked up and down the street as he popped his umbrella up. Ricky took a hand from his coat pocket, waving it at him. Banjo came over with a  _hullo_.

“Have you seen Tinsley?” asked Ricky, putting his collar up against the spitting rain. "He's gone missing, apparently."

“Not since yesterday evening,” replied Banjo, the wind buffeting his umbrella. “One of the boys told me he passed by in a hurry around midnight, all wound up.”

“Did they say which way he went?”

Banjo pointed back up the street. “That-a-way, methinks.”

Ricky narrowed his eyes back up the hill, muttering a thanks as he left. Maybe Tinsley had turned tail and fled. Maybe he’d had enough. Maybe he’d been going to the manor and crashed in the rain. Or maybe he'd gone out of town to bring back some friends. Ricky slowed at the sight of the silent apartment. The Waitress from Texas had lived there. Now she lived in the ground. Ricky rubbed the back of his hand along his jaw, feeling the stubble scratch his skin. Then he spotted the car, the detective's car, parked up outside. He went into the apartments.

The door to number 15 had been shut, but the splintered wood was still visible. Ricky checked the gun hidden in his coat under his arm, placing his hand on the door. He pushed it open slowly. The room was dark, but the pale light from outside shone right onto a slumped figure on the floor.

“Son of a bitch.” Ricky circled the detective, spying his hat lying a few feet away. He nudged him with his foot, eliciting a groan. “Get up.”

Tinsley didn’t move, a finger twitching against the carpet. Ricky nudged him again, harder. The detective groaned again, harder. His hair was dark at the back of his head. Ricky got down on a knee beside him, pressing lightly on the dark spot. It was sticky, pulpy, his fingertips came away stained. Tinsley mumbled a curse, jerking his head away. He finally opened his bleary eyes, rolling onto his back to look up at the face staring back.

“Ricky?”

Ricky paused at the softness of the name. “What the hell happened?”

Tinsley ran a weary hand down his face, eyes closed. “I don’t know." His voice was sleepy, his movements slow. "Maybe  _you_ know, hm?”

“I didn’t do this. If I did I would’ve finished it.”

Tinsley forced himself to sit upright, hissing as his head hurt with enough intensity to kill a small child. “Son of a fucking bitch. Fuck.”

“You got hit pretty hard.” Ricky straightened up, eyeing the surrounding room. “Stay there.”

Tinsley tried to stand, a hand pressed to the wall for support, head hanging. He felt like he’d gone through ten rounds with Ali. He accepted the offered glass of whiskey, giving Ricky a suspicious look.

“Am I dreaming?”

“Why?” Ricky turned away, pulling open the curtains, letting daylight in. He brushed the dark curtains down either side. “Is waking up to me too good to be true?”

“Mm.” Tinsley sipped at his drink, gingerly feeling the back of his head. “No, if this was really a dream, we’d be occupied with something else right now.” He smiled at the dry look. “On that couch.”

“I honestly don’t think you’d be able to handle it with the head wound.” He grinned around the cigarette in his mouth, lighting it behind a cupped hand. “I think I’d kill you.”

“What a way to go.”

Ricky watched him stagger to the couch. “Why are you here, hm? I thought we agreed you'd lay low.”

Tinsley looked at him with tired eyes. "I didn't agree to that."

"Mm. You put a gun to my head instead."

“Yeah."

Ricky observed the room again; nicely furnished, with framed photos and lots of beige. Not exactly to his taste, but pleasant nonetheless. "The chauffeur used to live here.”

Tinsley felt the back of his head again, wincing. “Right. Well, I came here to have a look around. So I guess I'll do that."

“Look around for what?"

“Why would I tell you?”

Ricky tutted, leaning against the wall beside the photo frame nailed to it. He watched as the detective pushed himself to his feet, moving towards him. Ricky stayed still, waiting, watching. Tinsley came closer, pulling his tie open around his collar, pulling it off. He distractedly wrapped the red fabric around his fingers as he observed the photo beside Ricky’s head.

“That him?”

Ricky nodded, throwing a sidelong look at the smiling faces of the chauffeur and the waitress. “Yeah.”

“Hm.” Tinsley took the photo down off the wall, carrying it closer to the window. The light shone off the black-and-white picture. The last time he'd seen the chauffeur the man had been distorted with sea water, unrecognizable. “Looks a bit like you.”

Ricky gave him a glare. “He was half Japanese. That’s all we had in common, _gringo_.”

Tinsley ignored him, tilting the frame. “No. No, you have the same nose. And the same shape face.”

Ricky glared at him for a moment longer. Then he snatched the photo away, turning his glare to it instead. “A bit. So what.”

“Yeah, you’re right. So what.”

Ricky looked up at the tone, eyes narrowed. “Spit it out already.”

Tinsley shrugged, finally retrieving his hat from the floor. He dusted it off. “Just a coincidence.”

“How.” Ricky blocked his path to the door, the sharp corners of the photo frame shining in the daylight. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Tinsley rubbed a hand over his mouth pensively. “I suppose I could tell you. In public. Over a coffee that you can treat me to.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Ricky chucked the photo onto the couch, folding his arms across his chest. “But fine.”

“Wonderful,” he said, shrugging his coat off. “Help me wash the blood off my head first. People think I'm weird enough already.”

Ricky followed him into the kitchen, watching him turn on the tap, forage a towel from a drawer. “You’re very strange, you know that?”

“I’ve been informed before.” He rolled up his shirt sleeves, folded them messily around his elbows. He took off his glasses, hooking them onto the front of his shirt. “Some people think it’s a good thing. I don’t think you do, though.”

“I don’t think anything about you is a good thing.”

“Lovely.” Tinsley put a finger under the water, pressing his lips together. “Mm, icy cold. Just how I like it.”

“Boil the kettle.”

“I’d rather not extend our time together.” He put his head under the running water.

“For God’s sake. No.” Ricky took his coat off, dropping it over the back of a chair as he crossed the small kitchen. “You’re not even getting the blood.”

“The sink is too low,” came the muffled reply.

“The sink is normal.” Ricky took hold of the man’s head, turning it aside, getting the bloodied patch under the water. “What even happened to you?”

“Someone clattered me with something. I don’t know.”

“And that happens to you a lot?”

“Yes, actually. Not usually so hard.”

“I’m shocked.” He turned off the tap. “You’re clean.”

“Great.” Tinsley towel-dried his hair messily, looking at the blood still swirling around the sink. “Why did you come here? Looking for me, hm?”

“Would it give you the wrong idea if I said yes?”

"I don't know. Would it?"

Ricky stayed in the doorway, propped against the frame with his shoulder. "I don't like you going rogue."

"I don't like it too much either, especially when it turns out like this." He used the towel to dry off his hands, lingering by the sink, as casual as if it was his own home he was standing in. "Thankfully you came to my rescue."

"I think I'm gonna regret that."

"But as grateful as I am,you promised you'd leave me alone." Tinsley placed the towel aside. "Yet here you are."

Ricky smiled. "This is me leaving you alone."

"I suppose it is, considering the opposite." He tilted his head aside, observing the man in the doorway. "You're quite strange yourself, Ricky. If you don't mind me saying."

"How so."

"One minute you're out for my blood, the next you want us to be friends."

"I thought we agreed that we're not friends."

"Ah, sorry. I'd forgotten. Friendship just gets in the way, isn't that what you said?"

Ricky straightened up off the doorway, rolling his eyes at the other man's smirk. "I've changed my mind about the coffee. You can keep your stupid theories to yourself."

"I think you'll want to hear this one."

"You think wrong."

Tinsley followed him back out to the sitting room, hands on his hips as he observed their surroundings properly. There were no signs of a struggle. There were the faintest drops of blood on the carpet where Tinsley himself had been out cold all morning. The door to the bedroom was shut, but the light was on, shining through the crack between the door and the frame. Tinsley went over, pushing open the door. He hummed.

"Looks like someone was in a rush," he muttered, moving over to the bed, where a suitcase was torn asunder, clothes halfway in. "Wonder where she was going, hm? And why she wasn't allowed get there."

Ricky shrugged. "I don't care. And I don't know why you care."

"Mm. You're right." Tinsley crossed to the small desk by the window, sitting himself down, flipping the small notebook in front of him to a fresh page. He popped the lid off the pen on the desk, wiping the nib before dipping it in some ink. "Okay, so first, I get called here by some mystery woman whose quite upset about the death of a certain chauffeur. I get here, and I find that this entire place is a pit of snakes and the chauffeur was most definitely shot, placed in a car, and left on the beach to be swept away into the sunset. Yeah?"

"I don't care for monologues."

Tinsley gave him a wry look, spinning the chair to face him. "You could always leave."

"I guess I could." Ricky buttoned his coat, turning away. "Don't get lost again."

Tinsley heard the door shut over as the man left as promptly as he'd arrived. He turned back around to the desk, tapping the end of the pen against the paper. Then he got up and moved back to the suitcase. He rifled through it because he had no shame. He emptied the clothes out onto the floor, feeling along the lining of the case. He felt something, a little hard box. Tinsley cut it out with the letter opener on the desk. He opened it.

"Huh."

It was a ring. An expensive diamond one, it seemed. He tilted it in the light. Then he pocketed it. He took the letter opener and cut the photo of the waitress and the chauffeur from its frame. He folded it up and put it in his pocket too. He rifled through every drawer he could find, every nook and cranny, until he came upon something quite surprising indeed; a bunch of manila envelopes under the mattress, each one containing a wad of cash. He turned one of them over in his hand, his eyes round. Then he flipped the mattress over fully with a bit of effort, right off the bed. He could see that the middle of it was sewn shut. He took the letter opener and cut it open raggedly, kneeling on the end of it. He drew out a thin piece of paper, folded up. He sat back and unfolded it. He sat more upright as he read the name, as he saw the official stamp. And it turned out the Waitress was not from Texas at all.

* * *

_**24 hours earlier** _

"I think he's handsome," she said, holding her steaming cup of coffee in both hands. "Even with the bruises."  
  
"Especially with the bruises," replied Fran, spinning her own coffee in a slow circle on the tabletop. The café was busy enough, as all shops along the boardwalk were, but they were beginning to quiet down as the night grew older. "Scars and stuff tell a story, don't they? Ricky got his in a bar fight. I was there. It was great."  
  
"Tinsley didn't really strike me as a man of action though," said Darla, tapping her cigarette into the ashtray between them. "But I suppose I was wrong. At least he brings some life to the town. Working for Fear is grim."  
  
"You might as well be working up in the graveyard, hm?" grinned Fran, legs crossed towards the wooden rail that made up the edge of the boardwalk. The nighttime view out to sea was as beautiful as ever, but the townspeople simply took it for granted, seeing as none of them had ever left anyway. A thick fog was rolling in. "What age is he now? Eighty-one? Eighty-two?"  
  
"Eighty-five," said Darla flatly, tucking her dark hair behind her ear. The curved bob rested neatly behind the collar of her coat. "He was meant to be dead and gone by now. _I_ should be the lead editor."  
  
"Can't kill a bad thing," said the Waitress with a lipsticky smile. "He's gon' be around forever and ever, I think."  
  
"You'll get it soon," said Fran, brushing some ash off her shirt with a tut. She always dressed crisp and clean in tailored suits, and was frequently more dapper than any of the men in town. "If what they say about Lucy is true."  
  
"Oh Lordy, is it?" The Waitress tucked a strand of her dyed blonde hair behind her ear. "But then _he's_ gon' be in charge."  
  
"I know," said Fran, somber. "And he'll have a hell of a lot of plans." She lowered her voice to a whisper, leaning into the table. The two other women did similar. "He wants rid of them all. He doesn't like the Minister for obvious reasons, and he thinks Fear has too much of a mouth on him."  
  
"He's right," muttered Darla. "One time, at the start, the old geezer tried to make a move on me. I stubbed my cigarette out on his hand so hard he screamed. He hasn't tried anything since, and that was ten years ago."  
  
"But what about the chief of police?" asked the Waitress, her dark eyebrows raised. She didn't bother dying them. "I like him. I think he's a lovely man, so kind."  
  
"He's the only one Ricky was going to leave alone," said Fran, taking a pull on her cigarette. "But he's all buddy-buddy with Tinsley now, and Ricky doesn't like that. Not one bit."  
  
"Speaking of," muttered Darla, flicking open her cigarette case to retrieve one of her own.  
  
Their figures were just visible, half-lit by the fairy lights along the bars and cafés. They couldn't have been further apart on the spectrum of shape; the detective was tall and thin, the chief was short and stout. They were engaged in what seemed like urgent chit-chat. They wandered along, seemingly with the world to themselves. Darla pursed her lips at the sight of the detective, lighting her cigarette.  
  
"Oh what's the face for, honey?" The Waitress laughed to herself. "Holly was right about him, and she always is. He's one of them who goes bein' a husband to women and a wife to men."

"Who wouldn't be a wife to Ricky, hm?" Darla swilled her coffee around its cup before adding a dash of whisky from the pint in her pocket. "I'd eat him up."  
  
"Yeah, I wouldn't quite put any money on a romance developing," said Fran quietly. "They - Tinsley and Ricky - went down to the old house, and me and the Mayor followed after about half an hour, and Ricky was beating the living daylights out of the guy. I mean proper spitting blood stuff." She raised an eyebrow. "I'd say if we hadn't arrived, Ricky would've just kept going until the guy was dead."  
  
"What?" Darla's eyes were comically wide, her mouth a little _o_. "But they were all over each other on the Monty!"  
  
"They're a goddamn disaster," said Fran with a sure nod. "I'm surprised Ricky hasn't killed the guy in his sleep yet. That's what he did to Henry. Strangled him in the middle of the night, and that was that."  
  
They went quiet as a tall shadow fell over their table. Tinsley gave them a small smile. "Hello."  
  
Fran tapped her cheek. "How's the eye, babes?"  
  
"Eh, it'll be fine." He was rolling a cigarette around in his fingers, the other hand in his coat pocket. "I just wanted to say thanks. For the other day. I think that cancels out the whole bit where you tried to shoot me."  
  
She shrugged, grinning at him with shiny white teeth. "You've grown on me, detective. Like a lost puppy that keeps turning up on the street."  
  
He spared her an amused smile. "That's good to know."  
  
Darla looked him over. "You're not still working, are you?"  
  
"My job's one of those where I'm always working," he replied dryly. "And it's not made easier when someone keeps swooping in and kicking my ass into next week."  
  
Fran laughed, although the other two women didn't. "Can't do much about that." She sipped her coffee. "Actually, as a matter of interest, who's paying you?"  
  
"Yeah." Darla swallowed her mouthful of coffee. "If you don't know who hired you, then who's paying you?"  
  
"I have no idea," he muttered. "But I am getting paid. Randomly. A bit unorthodox, but for once I think it's worth it."  
  
The Waitress swallowed. "You any closer to finding out who killed him?"  
  
"It's strange," said Tinsley, his gaze distant but sharp nonetheless. "Most cases are solved by finding evidence and then finding the killer. But this time I'm pretty sure I've found the killer, but there isn't a shred of evidence to be found."  
  
"And Ricky's not the type you can exactly drag in for questioning," said Darla under her breath. "So good luck with that, detective."  
  
"I haven't brought him in yet," said Tinsley, looking at her. "But don't count me out quite so soon."  
  
He gave them a nod before moving back off towards the chief. He and Banjo carried on towards the station. The Waitress finished her coffee with a satisfied smile. Then she got to her feet, and said her goodbyes, and said her last goodbyes too.

* * *

Ricky sat in his car for a long while. He looked at himself in the rear view mirror. He knew he didn't look like his mother; her nose was more upturned, her face more narrow. He must look like his father. But he'd never seen any photos, and anything he'd been told had had its trademark vagueness stamped on it. He pressed his lips together in a line, gripping the steering wheel tight. He had a feeling he knew what Tinsley had been going to suggest. Really, he was running away. He looked up as he noticed the detective himself stroll out of the apartments, holding his hat to his head against the wind. Ricky beeped long and loud. He rolled down his window as Tinsley came over, the detective leaning down to the window, hat off to let the wind play with his thick hair.

"Get in."

"Why would I-"

"Just get in the car," said Ricky, seeming very tired all of a sudden.

Tinsley circled the car. He checked the back seats before sitting into the passenger one. He took a moment to wipe the rain off his glasses, sparing a sidelong look at the brooding man beside him. Ricky blinked a few times, letting his hands slide off the wheel. His fingers fidgeted on his lap. Tinsley lit a cigarette.

"I-" Ricky dwindled off, closing his eyes. He tried again. "What were you going to tell me?"

"About what?"

His voice was quiet. "About the chauffeur."

Tinsley tapped the cigarette into the ashtray between the seats. He gave Ricky a glance; the man looked positively forlorn; it was a cruel trick by God to have a man so evil be able to look so innocent. He swallowed. Maybe he shouldn't say anything.

"It's nothing."

"Tell me." Ricky stared at him, and for once his eyes weren't angry pools of black. They were just eyes, round and anxious. "I'd really like to know."

"I think you already do know, Ricky."

Ricky sniffed, turning his head away. His fingers fidgeted again. "Do you think that's why he was killed?"

"I think it's a start."

"Well I never knew about him."

"I know. Which I guess means you actually didn't do it." Tinsley watched the rain wash down the windows like rippling silk. "I suppose I owe you an apology."

"You could do one better." Ricky looked back at him, a bit of fire in his eyes again. "I want to hire you."

"No." Tinsley shook his head firmly, laughing in disbelief. "No. I have some morals, Ricky. Not many, but a few."

"Liar. I know about your last case."

Tinsley went quiet. "I did my job. So what."

"Yes, the accused confessed, didn't he? After a heart-wrenching letter from one of the victim's mothers, begging to know why he did what he did to her little baby boy."

"I did my job," repeated Tinsley, his voice as hard as stone. "So what."

Ricky smiled. "I know that letter wasn't written by someone's grieving mother. It was you."

Tinsley didn't look away, his jaw set. "I'll do whatever I have to do to make sure people get what they deserve. That's what I do. That's why I do what I do. I don't hire myself out so people can use me as an accomplice to various crimes."

"Oh, how honorable of you." Ricky sneered the words, watching the detective's fists clench until they were white-knuckled on his lap. "You feel bad about it, don't you."

"No. No, I've never lost a wink of sleep over anything I've done. As long as it was for the right cause."

"And who gets to decide the righteousness of the cause, hm? You? Convenient."

"I'm not helping you. Piss off."

"I want to know about my father. _Dios mío_ , I'm sick to the death of all this." He turned in his seat to face him more directly, all in earnest. "I've never met him. I've never been told anything about him. But now it turns out he had another child?"

"It's just a thought that crossed my mind."

"And another son, at that?"

"It might be completely wrong."

Ricky shook his head, gaze distant. "And he was older than me. By a year or so. He had about as much legitimacy to be the heir to my mom's fortune as I do. More, even."

"Ricky, don't jump to-"

"And what if there's more?"

"Exactly!" Tinsley's voice was rough, demanding to be listened to. "What if there's more? What if you have more brothers and sisters out there? What would happen then? Whoever killed the chauffeur could have a right good time with all the rest."

"I don't care."

Tinsley stared at him in silence. "You _want_ them dead."

"Yes I want them dead." Ricky glared at him, getting one back just as fierce. "I don't want an older sibling wandering into my life a few years down the line, demanding half of this and half of that. I want them dead now."

"Jesus Christ." Tinsley stubbed his cigarette out with vigor. "You're a fucking lunatic, you know that?"

"So you won't do it?"

"No I won't fucking do it." Tinsley shoved at the door. "Open the damn car. Open it."

"Oh I just disgust you, don't I."

"Yes. You do." He pulled at the handle. "Open the door."

"You don't understand. You'd never be able to understand."

"I don't want to understand." He reached for the button on the dashboard to unlock the car. "And I-"

He cursed as Ricky's hand took a tight hold of his wrist, wrenching his arm away. He didn't get time to say anything else before Ricky's other hand was around his throat in a crushing grip, pinning him back against the seat. Tinsley shoved at him as the other man climbed halfway over to his seat, unrelenting as he kept the detective in place easily. Tinsley turned his head away, pulling at the fingers around his throat, his other hand still in Ricky's grip.

"You'll work for me, do you understand that?" said Ricky in a dangerously soft voice, his breath hot against Tinsley's cheek. He was right up against him, a knee between his legs, much too close for comfort. "Do you?"

The detective opened his eyes, glaring at him sidelong, glasses awry. He didn't reply. His fist clenched and unclenched where Ricky held it aside.

"I want you to find out who my father is," growled Ricky, feeling the man's pulse thundering under his fingers. "And I want you to find out if he has any other little bastards running around. I don't care what age or what gender, I just want to know." He felt Tinsley struggle a bit, a futile attempt. He spoke the words right into his ear, quiet and calm. "I want to know who they are. I want to know where they are. And I want to know if they know about me. And if they don't, I'm going to let them know. Alright?"

Tinsley didn't break eye contact once, his face turning a shade of red as the grip on his throat didn't let up for a second. He managed to scrape the words out through gritted teeth. "I-I'd rather you kill me."

Ricky's glare grew hotter, his eyes inches from the other man's, their noses almost touching. He heard the detective try to take a choked breath, his arm shaking where Ricky held it aside. He struggled a bit. He struggled a lot. His free hand shoved at Ricky, hitting his shoulder, but it was feeble. His eyes squeezed shut, he clawed at the hand around his throat. Then Ricky released him, sitting back into his own seat. He listened to the detective gasping for breath as he lit a cigarette, flippant. Then he unlocked the car.

"Fine."

Tinsley cleared his throat, his voice strained. "You said you'd leave me alone. You promised."

"My family as a group said they'd leave you alone," replied Ricky with a smile. "Me, singularly? I do what I want."

Tinsley rubbed at his throat, still able to feel the burning grip digging into him. "Fuck you."

"Whatever." He exhaled the smoke through his nose, listening to the wind splattering the rain against the car. "Get out. We're done here."

"Fuck you," repeated Tinsley with ten times the vehemence. He opened the car door. Then he shut it, still inside. "You lay a fucking finger on me one more time and I'll break your fucking arm."

"Sure."

The car door was slammed so hard it shook the vehicle. Ricky's scowled at the blurry figure of the detective. He turned on the windshield wipers, watching his tall frame pace off down the street, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders squared, clearly fuming. Ricky smiled to himself, sitting back in his seat. There was something about getting right under someone's skin that just brought him joy. He drove back up the hill.

"Sir, you shouldn't have gone out." The Mayor took his wet coat, shaking his head softly. "The weather is awful."

"I know. I just had something to take care of."

"Of course, sir." The Mayor vanished as he so often did.

Holly caught him at the sweeping stairs, a thick leather-bound ledger in her hand and a pen and pot of ink in the other. Her usual personalia. "Well, Ricky. What's with the smile."

"Oh, just small pleasures." He hopped up the stairs, using the banister at the top to swing himself into a turn. He stopped at the wooden railing, pushing his hands along it, his heart positively singing as he looked down at the hall. Grandfather Goldsworth stared at him, regal in his gilt frame. "Holly?"

She paused at the doorway to the dining hall, her white-haired head turning to look up at him. "Yes?"

"Is my mom in?"

"Yes."

"Where is she?"

Holly pursed her lips, giving him an odd look. "In her bed."

"Oh. Okay." Strange. Lucy didn't tend to stay in bed past nine. "Thanks."

He went through the cavernous hallways, rolling his sleeves up around his elbows, passing a few of the staff on the way. They avoided his eyes. He frowned to himself as he turned the corner towards Lucy's room. Her door was open. A woman stood in it, in a white pinafore, crisp and sterile. She was waiting for something. Ricky slowed to a halt at the murmured voices. Then the nurse stepped out of the doorway, and the doctor followed, and they stared at Ricky with blank faces. Ricky stared back, his heart sinking impossibly low. The two medics chose the long way to the front door.

Ricky didn't move for a long few minutes. His gaze was distant, his hand still holding his sleeve where he'd been rolling it up. His feet carried him to her door. Lucy sat on the edge of her bed, her hands folded in her lap. She looked drowned in her dressing gown. Ricky stood at the door in silence, one shaking hand resting on it.

"Hi _mamá_."

Lucy lifted her head, and smiled at him with reddened eyes. "Ricky."

He swallowed. "How are you?"

"Not too good."

"Oh." He hovered by the door. He had the choice to walk away from this bad news. He knew he did. He could do what he'd been doing for the past year and slap on the blinders. "Would you like anything?"

"No. No, I'm okay." Her voice was throaty, sore. "Come here. Sit beside me."

He hesitated before doing so. He sat beside her. She took his hand, and held it tightly. He swallowed as he watched her eyes growing watery. Neither of them spoke for a long while.

"You know I love you, Ricky," she said, her other hand moving to rest on his. "I love you more than anything else in this world."

He nodded. "I know."

"Good. Good. It's important that you know." She wiped at her mouth with a bloodied tissue. Ricky's heart clenched. "Don't forget it. Promise me you'll never forget."

"I promise."

She gave his cheek a fond pinch, smiling. "You never quite grew into them, did you."

He searched her face, his own one worried. "Are you okay, _mamá?"_

She bit her lip hard, hard enough for it to turn white. "I- I have to tell you something."

Holly sat down at the dining table, pen scratching paper. The Mayor waited beside her for any orders that might cross her mind. It was quiet, and it was peaceful. She flicked through the accounts, her wire-framed glasses resting on the end of her nose. The Mayor stared at the wall, at the table, at nothing. They both jumped at the heart-wrenching wail that came from upstairs, listening as it descended into wracking sobs. Horsley put her pen down, looking over her shoulder at the Mayor, who pressed his lips together in a line. Holly pushed her coffee aside, lacing her fingers on top of the ledger in front of her.

"I think I'll have a gin instead, Mayor."

"Very well, ma'am."

They heard footsteps thundering down the stairs in the hall. The front door slammed shut. They didn't dare follow.

* * *

The church was empty but for the usual crowd; Fear, Banjo, and the Minister. They sat in a vague triangle in the first two pews, murmuring among themselves. A party for Lucy's homecoming was being held tonight. It was a frightening prospect, but even with Lucy's news, she was insisting it go ahead. Everyone was invited, even families from out of town. It was already a tense event. The Minister readjusted the rings on his fingers, where there had been blood the night before.

"You should tell the detective," said Banjo quietly. "Otherwise he'll find out himself, and we'll each be enemies in his eyes."

"I can't tell him," replied the Minister with a shake of his head. "If I do, they'll kill me. You know what she's like. No mercy."

Fear hummed his agreement. "I do understand where you're coming from, but I said before and I'll say it again; Tinsley can take whatever that family throws at him. You didn't see him last night. He put a gun right to that little demon's head, and made him leave."

"I can't risk it. I won't." The Minister shook his head again. "Tinsley could disappear as promptly as he arrived, and then who'll be around to protect us?"

Fear pushed his glasses up along his nose. "Then I'll tell him. They can't harm me, not while my daughter still lives out of town. And I'm pushing my time on this earth anyway."

"Then tell me," said a stern voice.  

The three of them turned to see the detective standing a bit further down the aisle, arms folded across his chest expectantly. He wasn't wearing his coat for once. He seemed different without it, more serious. His sleeves where rolled to his elbows, his shirt tucked in around his narrow waist, his tie loose around his open collar. He was young and tall and strong and confident. He was intelligent. He was fearless. He was a leader. Fear spoke first.

"Fitzgerald saw who killed the Waitress."

"I tried to stop them, to convince them to leave her alone," said the Minister sadly, his gaze lowered. "They just ignored me."

"Who's 'they'?" Tinsley moved around to stand in front of them, his eyes sharp. "Tell me."

The Minister swallowed, his face pale. Tinsley watched him closely; the poor man was terrified. Terrified of what that family could do to him. Tinsley spoke more softly.

"It's okay. You can tell me. I won't let them know it was you."

The Minister nodded shakily, wringing his hands. "It was Ms Horsley. And the Mayor. But Ms Horsley killed her. Shot her dead right in front of me. Then the Mayor left her body near the sea to let it get swept away. She was running away. Holly shot her in the head, and then twice in the back just in case." He swallowed again. "Then they just left."

Tinsley nodded, and it all made sense. "Alright. I-"

The door opened with enough anger to hit against the stone wall. The Minister lurched to his feet, positively cowering behind Tinsley as Ricky came up the aisle with tears staining his furious face. He shouted the words.

"HOW MANY OF YOU KNEW?" He was trembling with rage, pointing at them with a hard finger. "HOW MANY? TELL ME!"

Banjo joined the Minister beside Tinsley, taking his hat off his head to wring it in his hands. They stared at Ricky, who was still shouting and crying and the tears burned down his cheeks.

"SHE'S DYING AND NO ONE TOLD ME!" He was sobbing now, the words choked but no less angry. "WHY?" He looked at each of them in turn, his eyes brimming with tears. They glistened on his lashes. "Why wouldn't you tell me?"

Tinsley watched in silence as the man grabbed onto the nearest pew for balance, his head hanging, a hand pressed to his eyes as his shoulders shook with the sobs. The detective pushed at Fitzgerald to leave, quietly. Banjo followed, guiding Fear along behind him. They slipped out the side door. Ricky didn't notice. He fell to his knees against the pew, clutching his stomach, crying so hard he thought he was going to get sick. But he didn't. He wouldn't. Not in front of the other man. He wiped his coat sleeve over his eyes, his nose, suddenly overwhelmed with embarrassment. He turned his head away from Tinsley. The detective stayed quiet.

"I'm sorry, Ricky," he eventually said.

"You're sorry." The words were bitter, icy. "You're not sorry. You're probably going to laugh it up later, hm?"

"No." Tinsley watched the man push himself back to his feet, his face still streaked with tears. "No. I'm not happy about it."

Ricky closed his eyes, a few more silent tears escaping. They dripped off his jaw. "She's- She's all I have. You don't understand. She's all I have."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that."

"I don't know what else to say."

"Then just shut up," spat Ricky, throwing him a sidelong glare. "If you were truly sorry, you'd leave."

"I can't leave."

"Leave." Ricky spoke the words quietly, closing the small space between them. "Leave this town. Leave me alone. Ever since you arrived I've got nothing but bad luck rammed down my throat. I'm sick of seeing your face. I'm sick of hearing your voice. I'm sick to the fucking death of _you_."

Tinsley stared at him, quiet-eyed. "Sorry."

Ricky stared back, his jaw clenching. Then he slapped him as hard as he could. The sound echoed around the church, stinging. Tinsley couldn't see for a moment, his vision white, his ears ringing. He stumbled, falling back against the carpeted steps, blinking rapidly. He held the side of his face, pretty certain he could taste blood on his tongue. Then he said: "Ow."

"If you stay in this town," said Ricky icily. "I'll kill you. I will kill you. I don't care if you have friends outside of town. I'll open your throat in front of everyone here, and I'll make sure they all remember it."

Tinsley rested back on the steps as if he was meant to be there, an elbow propped up on one. "You have a great talent for making enemies, Ricky. Sometimes I wonder if I should even be trying so hard to ruin you, seeing as you'll inevitably ruin yourself."

"Oh you're just so fucking witty, aren't you?" Ricky spat the words like venom. "You have an answer for everything. Well I wonder how witty you'd be without a tongue."

Tinsley spared a dry smile. "Still wittier than you."

Ricky came closer, growling the words through gritted teeth. "One of these days, I'll drag you out the front of this church, and I'll drag a knife across your throat and the whole damn town will learn what it means to cross me."

Tinsley gave him a long look, unwavering. "You're very fluent in threats, Ricky. But that won't get you far if you're going to try and replace your mother."

"You shut your fucking face, you cunt."

Tinsley stayed where he was as the man promptly left, his heart skipping beats in his chest. He sat upright on the steps, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. He sighed heavily, running a hand back through his hair, letting his fingers curl in it. What a mess he was getting himself into. He checked his watch with tired eyes. Time moved too fast in this town.

He got to his feet with a sigh, dusting himself off. His tongue probed the inside of his mouth; it had split against his teeth from the force of the slap. He sat in the first pew, feeling just a little sorry for himself. He took the ring he'd found from his pocket, his eyes sad as he turned it in his hand. Maybe they'd been engaged. Maybe they'd been planning on taking the Goldsworths down, but had been out-witted, out-maneuvered, not sly enough, not ruthless enough. He wondered if they could've done it. He wondered what Lucy would've done if she had known about the chauffeur. He wondered what she would've done if she had known about the Waitress. He wondered what she would've done if she'd known that the Mayor had never drowned the baby, that the youngest Montepulciano had been under her nose the whole time, calling private detectives in her normal accent, trying to stir up some trouble for the Goldsworths. He wondered what Ricky would've done about it all, but the answer was clear; he would've done exactly what had been done already.

But who had orchestrated it all? Someone smart and emotionless and cold as a statue, who had been hired for nothing but her dangerous efficiency and her eye for details that others wanted to keep hidden. 

"Ms Horsley," he muttered, trying to picture her face. He couldn't. She was just out of frame, too far in the background, silhouetted against a tall white window. All he could see was her neat white hair and her neat grey coat and her slatey eyes that watched everyone too closely. "Ms Holly Horsley. How much do you know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing tinsley: pretty chill, level-headed, in control, witty
> 
> writing ricky: flirty then sad then endorsing murder then happy then he's crying in public and then he's threatening to cut someone's throat open in front of an entire town and let their blood run down the street
> 
> also it's party time next chapter. the horny bois are on the horizon
> 
> also also here's a little playlist of songs I used for inspo (the idea for the town setting actually came to me because of the song Rain in Soho because just the bit where he says "no one was gonna get away with anything" just hmmmmm yea)
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/kmgfncjvuj1o07ohkl20xfrwx/playlist/2MlTUOo3D8xyRyB9g7uYzd?si=PHbZt5TQROS2VSXNu05tgA


	15. The Party - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lil tiny bit of NSFW (more next chapter tho)  
> and yea, so much shit happens at this party that i had to split it into 2 parts. woops
> 
> also WHY Y'ALL SO SORRY FOR RICKY he's a bastard man  
> and also also some comments were like "omg why is tinsley being mean!!" uhhh because SURPRISE. he is ALSO A BASTARD MAN
> 
> they're both bastard people. together

Tinsley pulled up further down the road than he had to. The place was crowded, cars were spread across the hills like giant shiny beetles. Cars. Which meant lots of people from out of town. Friends of the Goldsworths. Friends of the devil. Tinsley muttered to himself as he took a bottle of rye from his pocket and downed a mouthful straight. He could already smell the money. They were probably using the stuff as firewood. Tinsley sat in his car for a while, smoking a cigarette, slumped low in his seat. He hadn't been to a party in a long time. A long long time. He was nervous. He didn't like the feeling. He watched a group of girls run past in their heels and coloured frilly dresses, bright against their dark skin. Their giggles and excited chatter floated back through his window. He folded his arms across his chest, chewing at his cigarette, debating turning tail and leaving, until a very welcome face appeared in his window with a _hullo_. 

"Banjo." Tinsley smiled at his round face, stepping out of the car finally. "Am I glad to see you. Looking _very_ dapper."

"I'm surprised you're not in there already," smiled the chief through his moustache. "Surrounded by a gaggle of admirers."

"Flatterer." They walked at a comfortable pace, up towards the glowing mansion. They could see the golden light through the black rails. "Believe it or not, but I actually despise parties. Especially with people like this."

"It's a strange occasion, isn't it?" Banjo hummed pensively. "But I suppose the family don't want to start mourning too soon."

Tinsley readjusted the black tie around his neck, checking his watch. He'd only been wearing the tie properly for half an hour and it was already beginning to bug him. "What happens when she does go? Any traditions or anything?"

"Yes. She'll be in an open coffin in the church for an evening so the town pay their respects. Or in her father's case, spit on the body."

"Yikes."

"At first the bell rings for half an hour from when she passes," came a voice behind them. "And the flag is lowered atop the church. Aye, the town will mourn."

"They'll mourn more than her life," added Fear, being wheeled along in a chair by the Minister. "They'll mourn sane leadership too."

"Quiet, you buffoon," muttered Fitzgerald.

Tinsley raised an eyebrow as the Minister wheeled the Doctor right through the gates, following along with Banjo. "You're a party animal, hm, Fear?"

"I used to dance the night away."

"He used to get drunk and stumble around like a maniac," muttered Fitzgerald.

"Gentlemen." The Mayor awaited them in the doorway, a tall black silhouette. "You're very welcome."

"All of us?" asked Tinsley dryly, pausing as he passed by. He looked at the man with entirely new eyes; he was no longer a statue in the corner, a mobile coat rack. His eyes were no longer pale; they were chips of ice. His white gloves hid hands that dripped with innocent blood.

"Yes, sir," he replied, not blinking his cool eyes. "Of course."

Tinsley gave him a lingering look. _I know what you are_ , his eyes said. _I know what you've done_. The Mayor didn't react, staying by the door, carved from the wood behind him. Tinsley moved on.

He followed the sound of the three men talking, audible just under the sound of a swinging party and considerably-sized band. He caught up with them at the door. He'd never seen this room, and he still couldn't see it. He was pretty sure there was a ballroom floor under the flurry of colours. A glistening chandelier hung above, reflecting the gold of the lights. The chatter filled the air in layers, thicker than the smoke from the hundreds of cigarettes below. A balcony circled along the wall, dark wood, brimming with people. Tinsley searched the various faces. He spotted Fran and Darla, clearly well on their way to a good night. He kept looking. He spotted Holly's white hair, weaving through the crowd, going towards a side door. He kept looking. He wasn't looking for a particular face. He wasn't.

"To the bar," ordered Fear over his shoulder, giving the wooden arm of the chair a slap with a gnarled hand. "I'll be happy when I have a cigar and a whiskey and good company."

"You won't leave this place until 8 in the morning," muttered the Minister, before beginning to maneuver the chair through the crowd and towards the bar on the far side of the room. Tinsley and Banjo followed, away from the raised stage beside them.

Tinsley ordered for the four of them, gesturing over the rest of the crowd. Then he spotted him, up on the balcony. Their eyes locked, taking the breath out of Tinsley's lungs just like that. Ricky smiled, not exactly a friendly one. It was that cruel curve of his mouth, the exact same one he'd given Tinsley in the graveyard so long ago. Tinsley tore his eyes away, taking the drinks off the bar and doling them out to the other three men. The Minister pushed Fear towards a table one room over. Banjo spoke over the noise, his eyes large, watching something behind Tinsley.

"Incoming!"

Tinsley looked over his shoulder, seeing Ricky coming down the angled stairs from the balcony. People kept well out of his way, some mumbling a greeting or two. Ricky didn't respond to any of them; he was focused on one thing, his black eyes burning. Tinsley gritted his teeth, looking away. He could see Ricky arrive out of the corner of his eye, his dark shirt standing out amid the white of everyone else's. Ricky spoke flippantly.

"Leave."

Banjo instantly obeyed, fleeing towards the next room. Tinsley took a mouthful of his drink, glaring at nothing. It was straight whiskey, smooth, but all of a sudden it wasn't strong enough. "Well, Ricky. To what do I owe the, uh, pleasure."

"I came to apologise," said Ricky with a smile, lifting his own drink to his mouth. "For my behaviour yesterday."

"I think I've heard that line before. So you can save it, pal."

"I'm serious!" Ricky smiled again, so charming it was sickening. "I know you're just trying to... change things. Change _everything_ , maybe."

Tinsley inclined his head at this, an eyebrow arched. He could see it now; the bubbling anger behind the smile. It wasn't really a smile anymore. Just bared teeth. "You're a feral little thing, you know that."

"I'm feeling a bit antsy, I'll admit." He tilted back his head to down his drink, letting out a sigh once he'd done so. "I have reason."

"For once."

Ricky smiled again. He was smiling a lot, and each one was as threatening as the last. "You should be careful tonight then, shouldn't you. Lots of dangerous people around, and none of them are exactly fond of cops from out of town."

"I'm not a cop."

"Sure. Not by title."

"Not by anything."

Ricky searched his face closely. "Why were you fired, hm? Must have been some impressive insubordination."

"If you must know, I was going through a bit of a rough patch," said Tinsley flatly. "And had what I now know was a bit of a breakdown. Please, keep your sympathies subtle."

" _You_ had a breakdown? The implacable Tinsley?" Ricky raised his eyebrows. "What triggered that, hm?"

"Surprisingly enough, I don't want to tell you."

"Please, reveal to me your tragic past," grinned Ricky, leaning in closer to speak more quietly. "Put me in the mood."

Tinsley didn't smile. "I'd rather not."

He stayed serious as Ricky clinked their glasses together, the shorter man stepping around him. "Drink up, detective. I'll find you later."

"Great."

He stood for a while, feeling strangely numb to his surroundings. Then someone jostled his drink, and it spilled on his hand, and he snapped back to reality. He joined Banjo and the other two at their table, sitting down, legs crossed. He held a cigarette between his teeth as he lit it.

"Well?" Banjo gave his nose a rub, looking from side to side, just in case. "What did he want?"

Tinsley took a drag, watching the people dancing and laughing. "I never quite know."

"You'd be stupid if you don't know." Francesca dumped herself down on the table, legs swinging. She'd swapped out a tie for a bright yellow bow tie, made of a shiny satin. "He wants that ass, detective. And I don't see why you'd refuse."

The Minister tutted, giving his head a little shake. This got a flat look from Tinsley.

"What. You don't approve."

"Aye, I don't approve. But I'll keep it to myself." He took a sip of his drink, pursing his lips at the strong flavour. "I've always kept such opinions to myself. Hence the reason I was shipped out here, to the back arse of nowhere."

"Not dictatorial enough for your old parish, no?"

"No."

"Baloney." Fear puffed at his cigar as he transferred himself from the wheelchair to the free seat at the table. "I'd say you got shipped out here because every mass you held was a funeral. Because you killed everyone's happiness."

Tinsley grinned at this, giving the chuckling old man a wink. 

"Gentlemen."

Tinsley turned his head and paused, keeping his face neutral. It was Lucy, but it wasn't her. She didn't look like the same woman he'd first met. She was frail and thin, and her gold hair was limp. But she smiled anyway. Tinsley joined the others in standing up, and he knew his face mirrored theirs; stunned horror. Tinsley took her offered hand, giving it a gentle shake. It felt like a bunch of matches.

"Lucy, I-"

"I'm assuming you all know," she said, clearing her throat. "About me. And my condition."

"Ms Goldsworth, I'm so sorry," said Banjo, holding his hat in both hands. "I-"

"I'd rather not have your pity thrown at me," she said, her gaze fleeting as she looked at each of them. "I want to talk."

"Of course."

"Not with you, detective," she said, strangely cool. "You can go."

He stood for a moment in silence, his brows drawn together. He looked at the Minister and Banjo and Fear, who avoided his eyes. Fran just shrugged, sipping on her drink as she took his seat. Tinsley looked back at Lucy. Then he said 'okay', 'sure' and 'yeah' in that order.

He picked up his drink and left. That had hurt. For some reason, that had hurt. He wasn't sure why. He knew those people weren't his friends. Well, he liked to think Banjo was, but he couldn't be too careful around here. He sighed wearily, heading outside, standing beside the door, away from the rest of the people as he lit a cigarette. He kept an eye on the doorway, for no particular reason. Which was a lie. He was looking for Ricky. He wanted to talk to him. No, they never really talked. He wanted to fight with him, and argue, and trade insults like punches in a ring. Tinsley despised being bored, really, and Ricky was a man that carried generations of disaster on his shoulders, and didn't hesitate to pile it higher. He glanced at the door again, subtle, taking a mouthful of his drink. No one came through but Darla, looking admittedly stunning in an off-shoulder black dress. She flicked open her lighter, moving close to his spot as she tried to connect flame with cigarette.

"Hi."

She threw him an offended scowl, but it went a bit more lax as she saw who it was. "Oh, hi."

He pressed his lips together in a small smile, unsure of whether or not she'd want to talk. She was a tad difficult to talk to. Every breath drawn in her presence was an inconvenience to her, it seemed. "You know, I never apologised about what happened on the _Monty_."

She took a pull on her cigarette, the smoke curling out over her painted dark lips. "Which bit? The abandoning me for Ricky Goldsworth or the putting a gun to my head?"

"Well, uh-"

"I'd actually excuse you for the Ricky bit." She whistled through her teeth. "If I was in your position, I'd sink my claws in deep. Imagine waking up to that every morning. But thanks, yeah. You're forgiven."

He smiled again. "That's good."

She looked him over. Then she turned to face him more directly, looking around with more exaggeration, like an adventurer in the jungle. "Huh, no Ricky hanging off your arm tonight, no?"

"He doesn't hang off my arm," he replied dryly. "Not unless he's trying to break it."

"He's wild, isn't he?" She leaned in to whisper the gossip. "He had a fling with a waiter on the _Monty_ a few years back, and Ricky broke the guy's urethra in two places."

Tinsley blinked at this. Then he too leaned in. "You're telling me Ricky broke a man's dick during sex."

"Mmhmm." She raised her brows, taking a drag on her cigarette. "And it must've been worth it, because the waiter is _still_ all over him whenever we're out there." She shook her head. "I mean, what type of sex do you need to be having to _do_ that?"

"Christ." Tinsley pulled his tie loose, unbuttoning his collar, suddenly a bit too warm. "Wow. Okay."

"I'd say he's a handful in the bedroom," she said, quite seriously. Then she smiled mischievously. "Do tell me when you find out."

"Does everyone know about me and Ricky?"

"Oh, most definitely." She raised a shaped eyebrow. "You don't want them to?"

"Well my, uh, my _experiences_ with men have always been behind closed doors, so to say." He shrugged. "It's just strange for me that everyone just... knows. Stranger that they don't care."

"A few of them used to care," she said airily. "Few years ago. It was the old Minister, preaching his bullshit. Ricky replaced him."

"Huh? Replaced him?"

She shushed him, throwing a quick glance around their immediate vicinity. "Don't say it loud. But yes, replacement. You haven't heard of it yet?"

He shook his head over his drink. "No."

"It's what happens to you if you stop being... useful, I guess," she said with a shrug. "You get replaced. Which, in case you're wondering - which I can see you are - means you disappear off the face of this earth and you never existed. And someone new and obedient is put in your place." 

Tinsley waited for her to laugh. When she didn't, he looked back up at the manor beside them, hit by a new wave of contempt for this family. "They're tyrants."

"They're benevolent rulers if they like you," she shrugged. "They like Fran. They love Fran. They basically adopted her, the lucky son of a gun. All because she has a talent for killing people. I've never seen her hesitate. Not until the _Monty_. I don't know why she didn't just pull the trigger." She talked like she was talking to herself in the mirror. "Sometimes I wonder about her."

Tinsley inclined his head at this, watching how her eyes seemed to be watching another scene entirely. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, she's just said some stuff to me when we're drunk," she replied slowly. "Can't remember what, but I remember what it made me feel. Panicked. Worried for her." She dropped her cigarette, stubbing it out under her black heel. "But I'm going back inside. You coming?"

"Sure." He couldn't pass up on an opportunity to chat with this goldmine of information. The reason he'd even come was to get information. He wanted to talk to Lucy, to Holly, to the Mayor. He let her take his arm, and in they went to the glitz and gold and greed.

"That's Jeanne," said Darla, nodding at an elegant sweep of a woman by the bar. "From the town west of here. She was friends with the daughter of the Montepulcianos. I'm surprised she's even here. And that's Atalaya, or just Laya. She's from a town a few miles south. I think you'd like her; she despises Ricky."

"And why's that?" he asked, eyeing the dark-haired beauty. She turned her dark eyes to him, raising an eyebrow. With that look, she could've been a Goldsworth herself. He paled at the idea, remembering Ricky's words in the car.

"I actually don't know," said Darla. "They grew up similarly, with the whole no-father thing. I always thought maybe they're just too alike."

"...Right."

She took his hand, leading him into the dancers. "You're tense. Loosen up a little."

"Of course I'm tense," he replied, looking over her head as they joined the rest. "Everyone in this room is a damn model. Making me a bit, uh, flustered."

She laughed, leading him through the noise and the chat. "Well you're just like Fr-"

"Hullo." Banjo bumbled against them with Fran herself, but he looked quite urgent indeed. He nudged Darla. "Mind if we swap?"

She lit up as Fran smiled at her and offered her hand. "Sure. Of course."

Tinsley arched an eyebrow at Banjo as the chief took up where Darla had been. "You alright?"

"I think you should think of ducking out early," said Banjo, glancing over his shoulder as he repeatedly tripped over his own feet. "And I mean out of all of it. All of this."

"What? Why?"

"Lucy dropped some... hints," he replied as quietly as he could, his face reddening from the exertion of dancing slowly. "To me and Fear and Fitzgerald. About what's going to happen when she's gone. And you were mentioned."

Tinsley looked around the sea of people, immediately spotting Holly's white-haired head, and her eyes watched him right back as the Mayor danced her around with appropriate elegance. "Right. Planning ahead then. Wonder who initiated that."

His gaze found another pair of dancers, and despite everything, it made his heart clench. Ricky held his mother close, smiling at her so fondly, so openly loving he actually looked human for a change. She lifted a hand, and gave his cheek a pinch, and said something that made him smile. A genuine smile, not cruel, or threatening. Just sweet. Their eyes met for a split second before Tinsley quickly turned his head away. He felt like he'd seen something he shouldn't have. When he spared a sly glance to them again, Ricky had turned so that his back was to Tinsley. The detective lowered his gaze, doing the same.

"You alright there? asked Banjo, looking concerned, his bushy brows raised. "Looking a bit down all of a sudden."

"I'm fine. I just-"

"Oh, apologies," said the Minister as he bumped into them with a lively Fear. "You boys enjoying yourselfs? Great music. Aye, delightful."

Tinsley stared at him for a moment. He grabbed the opportunity with both hands. "Let's do a quick trade, Fitzgerald. Yeah?"

"Please," muttered Fitzgerald, eagerly passing Fear to Banjo. "He's driving me loopy, he is."

Tinsley swiftly led them through the crowd, half-listening to the Minister's chit-chat. He passed Fran and Darla, spinning through the other dancers. He turned, bringing Fitzgerald with him, and there they were. Right beside them. Ricky glared at him, glared at Fitzgerald, keeping Lucy close. The protectiveness was palpable.

"Ms Goldsworth," gushed the Minister, extending a hand to her. "May I?"

She smiled a bit stiffly, but she put her hand in his. "Of course."

Tinsley watched them go, his hands fidgeting by his sides. He looked at Ricky, who looked back challengingly. Just daring him to even bother asking. Tinsley dared. He extended his hand, palm up. Ricky looked at it for a moment, his deep breath visible in the rise of his shoulders. Then he placed his hand in Tinsley's, and let the taller man guide him close. He rested his other hand on Tinsley's shoulder, keeping his gaze averted. They moved in silence for the rest of the song. The band switched for some slower songs. It was time for a bar run. Most of the dancers went. Some stayed. Ricky watched his hand in the detective's, watched how the man's thumb absent-mindedly brushed his skin. Almost fondly. He heard Tinsley clear his throat.

"I should probably apologise for what I said earlier. In the church." He bit his lip, feeling the shorter man's fingers dig into his shoulder. He was walking on eggshells here. Eggshells and shattered glass and a landmine or two. "It was out of line. I know that. So I'm... I'm sorry."

Ricky didn't look at him, but his grip loosened on his shoulder. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me. I don't- I'm not a bad person." He closed his eyes, pressing his lips together in a line. He should just shut up. "I don't want you thinking I'm a bad person."

"Why does it matter what I think."

"It just- I don't know." He sighed heavily, turning his head aside. "I guess it's- I went through something similar. And I know you love your mom. And I know we don't get along particularly well, but if- if you don't want to be alone or something, I'll- I'll be around. Is what I'm trying to say."

Ricky nodded, moving just that bit closer to him. "I don't know if you're a good person or not. But you try."

"Okay."

"I don't try."

"You could."

He shook his head, eyeing the crowd around him. There were always disapproving eyes watching him, laughing at him, whispering about him. He realized he was holding Tinsley tightly, like he was an achor. He mentally cursed himself, stepping back a bit.

"It's not an option for me," muttered Ricky, keeping his lowered gaze on the shirt fabric in front of him. "Never was. Never will be."

Tinsley nodded, and they lapsed into silence again. He watched Fear and Banjo and Fitzgerald back at their table, drinking and laughing and chatting. He looked back down at Ricky, at the lack of any sort of smile on his face. He looked upset, bordering on tears. Tinsley bit his lip, wondering how to cheer him up. Wondering why he even cared.

"You know, shirts are made to be buttoned," said Tinsley wryly, looking him over. The man didn't have to even try to look good. He could've rolled out of bed and straight into the party and no one would've complained. "A bit risqué, Ricky. Even by my standards."

"I'll listen to your opinion on dressing when you finally discover what a comb is."

"As a matter of fact, I did brush my hair," said Tinsley with a raised eyebrow, leading the shorter man slowly through the other dancers. Ricky's hand was small in his. "But it didn't want to cooperate. You and my hair have a lot in common."

"It's fine," smiled Ricky, head tilted aside. "I think it's cute."

"Do you."

"Is that a blush I see?"

"You wish." 

Ricky smiled again, that sly curve of his mouth. "I do."

Tinsley looked down at him from under heavy lids, getting a look back just as seductive. "Clarify something for me here, Ricky. Do you hate me, or do you like me? The mixed signals I get are astounding."

"I'd rather you stay confused."

"I'd rather we get on an even playing field here." Tinsley drew the shorter man in just that bit closer, the two of them moving to their own, slower rhythm. He spoke the words quietly into the man's ear. "I struggle a bit with you, Ricky. It's no secret. But unfortunately for me, you have the face of an angel and a body to match, I'd say."

Ricky smiled, replying just as quietly. "Would you like to find out?"

Tinsley inhaled deeply as he felt a soft kiss being pressed against his chest, right between his open shirt collar, hidden from the rest of the room. "I- Yeah. Yeah, I would."

"Then don't be shy." Ricky moved the man's hands around to his lower back, feeling them press into him as the detective pulled him flush against his body. "You can feel. And maybe later you can see."

Tinsley didn't respond but to let his hands slip under Ricky's shirt, taking a hold of his waist, feeling his body hot against his palms. Ricky smiled sweetly up at him, his hands resting either side of the detective's neck. His gaze landed on Holly's, who was watching him in open disapproval. Ricky just laid his head against Tinsley's chest, hearing the man's heartbeat pick up. He smiled, pulling the taller man down to speak into his ear.

"You know what I need to distract me tonight?" Ricky ran his fingers through the man's hair, smiling. "A good, hard-"

"I know what you need," said Tinsley, his words hot against Ricky's neck. He breathed the man in, eyes closed. "And it's exactly what I want."

"Then it's a win-win situation, isn't it."

"No. No, I'd say it's the exact opposite."

Ricky moved his head back, their faces brushing as he did so. He traced a thumb across Tinsley's cheek, pausing at the small cut still below his eye. He pouted, looking up at the detective with big eyes.

"Sorry about that."

"I don't think you are." He looked down at him with a small smile, and he found that he was glad the fire was back in the other man's eyes. "I think you're happy about it."

"A little." Ricky moved closer against him, wrists resting over each other at the back of the detective's neck. "But it's important that people know there's a consequence to acting like you act."

"Which is like what, exactly?" He could feel the man's body under his hands, the muscles sliding against his fingers. "Unruly? Untameable? Rebellious, perhaps?"

Ricky smiled again. "You're not untameable."

"No? And how would you propose to tame me?"

"The same way every man can be tamed." Ricky let a hand slide down from the man's neck to his chest, picking at one of his shirt buttons. "I'd have you tamed by morning."

"Would you."

"Mid-morning, perhaps." He looked up at him from under his lashes. "If you could last that long."

Tinsley nodded, his lowered gaze on the other man's mouth. "I could."

Ricky smiled again, bringing them to a complete halt. The rest of the people had seemingly finished their drinks and were swiftly making a comeback to the scene. "How about you prove that."

Tinsley nodded again, the use of his brain lost for now as another part of his body took up the thinking. "Okay."

He let himself be led out into the hall, brought through the corridors, up the sweeping stairs. It was quieter here, less people. Better. He wasn't quite sure where they were going, but he had a hunch, and in the moment he didn't care either way. He followed Ricky into the bedroom, observing his surroundings as he heard the door click shut behind him; a large bed, a dresser, a table with one or two bottles and glasses on it and a few chairs scattered around it. The oil lamps were low and the balcony doors were open. He took off his black jacket, folding it over the back of the chair nearest to him.

"Drink?"

Tinsley looked at him as he rolled up his sleeves, tucking them in around his elbows. "Sure."

Ricky poured two drinks, sliding one across the table to the detective. Tinsley took a sip, not taking his eyes from the other man's as Ricky did the same. Ricky smiled, and Tinsley knew that he was going to be eaten whole tonight. He rolled a cigarette around his fingers as he wandered to the balcony, peering out at the people below. Ricky joined him, lighting his own cigarette, his eyes narrowed at the people below. Tinsley arched an eyebrow at the vicious look.

"Not fond of them, no?"

"Oh, they hate me," said Ricky with a roll of his eyes. "They all hate me. It's tragic."

Tinsley tilted his head, lighting his cigarette behind his hand. "Is that why you're here talking to me?"

"You hate me too." Ricky suddenly went quite thoughtful, his lowered gaze distant. "You just hate me for the right reasons."

"And the rest of them don't?"

Ricky didn't reply for a moment, his fingers tapping out a slow rhythm on the stone balustrade. The gardens were milling with people, their laughter and chatter light in the open air. "They hate me because of something I can't control. They hate me because I don't have a father. Because I'm not- I'm not really a Goldsworth, am I."

Tinsley studied the man's face, the side that he could see. "I guess that's a bit unfair, seeing as there's such a large selection of other reasons to hate you."

Ricky pressed his lips together in a wry smile. "I know everyone hates me, Tinsley. But I don't care about their opinions. They don't matter to me. They can't affect me. Not unless I let them."

Tinsley rested his elbows on the balustrade, legs crossed. "You might not have the Goldsworth name, but you have the attitude, Ricky. I'll give you that."

Ricky didn't look at him. His heavy eyes were watching the people below, in all their colourful glory. "I'd kill them all if I could. Every last one of them."

Tinsley gave the sombre tone a sidelong look. He didn't respond. He put his cigarette back in his mouth. With anyone else he'd laugh at them, or wish them luck, or simply roll his eyes. But not with this man. Ricky didn't move for a long while. His thumb rubbed back and forth on the stone.

"How would you do it?" asked Tinsley quietly, watching the crowd too.

"I'm not sure," replied Ricky almost dreamily. "But I'd make sure they die screaming." His thumb didn't stop rubbing, his gaze distant, hungry. "It would make me very happy, I think."

"You think about it a lot."

"Every night." He took a quiet breath. "Every night I think about it. I think about the shock and the pain on my enemies' faces before I kill them. Nothing makes me happier."

Tinsley didn't look at him, his face grim. "And does my face make an appearance at all?"

"You're the star of the show, detective." Ricky moved closer to him, whispering the words in his ear. "Especially when I'm feeling lonely."

"So that's what you think about to get you going, hm? Killing me."

"Killing is a great feeling, detective. Gets your blood racing." He smiled as Tinsley finally looked at him. "Have you ever killed anyone? And not with a gun. With your hands."

Tinsley shook his head. "No."

"It's one of the sweetest feelings on this planet," said Ricky, each word sincere. "To look them in the eye and watch as they realize that it's over for them. To take someone's life... It's addictive."

Tinsley didn't break eye contact for a second, his heart pumping in his chest. "You're sick."

"You're interested. Curious, even." Ricky watched the other man's mouth with heavy-lidded eyes, their noses inches apart. "Everyone's a killer, detective. You just have to push them hard enough. To breaking point. Past breaking point. Snap them right in half." He suddenly reached down, grabbing the detective through his trousers, hearing the sharp inhale as he did so. "Oh, you're curious alright." He moved forwards, pulling the taller man's belt open as he guided him back into the room. "Maybe I can satisfy you."

Tinsley dropped his cigarette, his mouth open to let his erratic breaths fire in and out as Ricky slipped a hand into his trousers. He hit back against the dresser, hands grabbing hold of it, fingers digging into it. "I- I- Fuck you."

Ricky smiled at the breathless words, stroking him nice and slow. "Stop torturing yourself." He leaned his body forwards against the taller man's, murmuring the words into his neck. "Let me do what you want me to do."

Tinsley closed his eyes, letting his head tilt back, one hand running through Ricky's dark hair. "I- I'm not torturing myself."

"You are."

" _You're_ torturing me," muttered Tinsley, his eyes fluttering as he felt a warm kiss being pressed to the bottom of his neck. "I- I can't. Not with you."

"What's wrong with me?" smiled Ricky, feeling the other man's hands taking hold of his arms, fingers digging in. "I thought you... _appreciated_ my presence."

"Physically," replied Tinsley, letting his hands brush down to grip Ricky wrists. The man's hands were still occupied. "Physically you're damn well irresistible. But then you open your mouth and talk."

"What if I opened my mouth but it wasn't for talking?"

"You're eager."

"I get what I want," replied Ricky, lifting his head from the man's neck. He could feel Tinsley's breaths against his cheek. "And I want you. I want you inside me. And I want you all night, to myself. It's that simple."

Tinsley swallowed, feeling Ricky's lips brushing his throat in passing. "You think that me and you would be simple, do you?"

Ricky tilted his head back, Tinsley moving in to kiss him, stopping himself at the last second. "Come on, detective. It's not your company I want shoved down my throat."

Tinsley kept his eyes shut, an eyebrow arching. He muttered his reply. "Charming."

Ricky smiled slyly. Despite his best acting, he knew Tinsley wanted it as much if not more than he did. He could feel how hard he was, and that was one sign that couldn't be pretended. Ricky pushed up on his tiptoes and kissed him, their lips taking a long while to fully separate. He heard Tinsley swallow, heard his shaky breaths. 

"Kiss me," whispered Ricky against his lips. He rested his hands on Tinsley's shoulders, drifting to undo his tie, to unbutton his collar. His fingers brushed his chest as he did so, feeling how tense he was. He was tense all over, his hands gripping the edge of the dresser behind him, white-knuckled. "Kiss me, Tinsley."

Tinsley shook his head. "Not you. I'm not starting this with you."

"Where did this hesitance come from, hm? Did I do something wrong?"

Tinsley opened his eyes at the wry tone. "Have you ever done something right?"

"Funny you should ask." Ricky slipped his hands under Tinsley's shirt, familiarizing himself with the body under it as he spoke distractedly. "I do two things right; fighting and fucking. You've already tried one. So why not have a taste of the other."

"Because I don't like you."

"We don't have to like each other." Ricky peeled his shirt off over his head, tossing it aside. Tinsley didn't need encouragement this time; his hands took hold of the shorter man's sides, pulling him forwards against him, the dresser rattling with the movement. "...Kiss me."

Tinsley gritted his teeth, looking down at the man's fit body, the present unwrapped. He traced his fingers down his chest, his hard stomach, letting them catch on the waistband of his trousers. "Then you have to do something for me."

"And what's that."

"Everything I say."

Ricky raised an eyebrow, but he smiled. He smiled very wickedly indeed. "Then you have to do something for me too."

Tinsley hummed distractedly as he walked the shorter man back towards the bed, unbuttoning his trousers for him. He pushed him back onto the bed, climbing on top, and their bodies fit together as perfectly as he always knew they would.

Ricky opened his mouth to finish his sentence. "You have to..."

He trailed off as he felt Tinsley's fingers tracing his lips, so softly it was a crime. Tinsley watched the movement of his fingers, studied Ricky's face so closely it was almost loving. Ricky looked at him from under heavy lids, tilting his head back as he felt a finger trailing down his throat. He took one of the detective's fingers and slipped it into his mouth, drawing it out again slowly, seeing the want burning in the other man's eyes. Tinsley kept his fingers on Ricky's bottom lip, keeping his mouth open, and he leaned in and kissed him with a fiery passion, hearing the sharp inhale from Ricky. He kissed him again, just to taste him, to hear the quiet sighs he was eliciting out of him. He slipped a hand around the back of Ricky's neck, lifting it slightly, Ricky tilting his head back to bare his throat in a manner that had the detective feeling weak. Tinsley leaned in, kissing his neck, a surprisingly gentle one. He kissed him again, closer to his jaw, his tongue brushing the man's skin, feeling Ricky's body shift under him. He pushed the kisses under the man's jaw, slow and hot, teeth grazing his skin, hearing the trembling breaths, feeling the fingers digging into his arms. Ricky was putty in his hands, his head still tilted back, lips parted, dark lashes fluttering with each kiss.

“Fuck.” The word was breathless, his hands dragging down Tinsley's back. “Fucking hell.”

Tinsley took his undone tie from around his neck, taking Ricky's wrists and pinning them against the sheets above his head. He slipped the fabric around his wrists, knotting it tight. He tied it to the headboard then, again, tight. He smiled down at Ricky, who appeared quite taken aback indeed. But then Ricky smiled back, a smirk more than anything else. Tinsley relaxed back down, kissing his neck, mumbling the words against his skin.

"Everything I say, remember?"

Ricky nodded, feeling the man's hands trace down his arms, down his ribs, holding him still as he leaned in to press a kiss to his chest. "I- Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"Mm." Tinsley brushed the kisses down the centre of his chest, down his stomach, fingers digging into him to hold him down as he tried to raise his hips, to push into the kisses. "Good."

He focused close to the man's waistband, pushing the kisses along above it, hearing Ricky let out a sharp breath, finally letting himself dissolve into panted breaths. Ricky bucked his hips up, having them pinned back down by Tinsley in seconds. He wrapped his fingers around the fabric of the tie, pulling at it in lieu of the sheets.

"Fuck," he breathed, his eyes fluttering. "Just- Just fuck me already. _Fuck_."

Tinsley raised his eyebrows at him. "What? Now?"

Ricky frowned at him, still breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling hard. "What?"

"I didn't know we specified right now." Tinsley got off the bed, doing his shirt back up, whistling a bright tune to himself as he checked his hair in the mirror, flattening it down a bit. "Sorry. Bit of miscommunication there."

Ricky pushed himself onto his knees, staring at Tinsley with wide eyes. "What are you talking about? What are you doing? Hey, where are you going?!"

"I'm going to get answers, Ricky," he replied, resting a hand on the door handle. "Without you trying to distract me. Or succeed in distracting me, for a little while. But don't fret." He winked at him. "I'll be back for you soon."

"What? What are you- Tinsley, untie me." He pulled at the knots; they'd been drawn so tight they were minuscule. "Untie me! Tinsley, you son of a bitch! TINSLEY!"

The detective closed the door behind him, tucking his shirt back into his trousers as he listened to the furious curses shouted at him. He'd probably regret that. He already regretted it. He looked down one side of the corridor, then looked down the other. He wondered which door led to Ms Horsley's room. He went to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be up much sooner than this one!!! and it's dramatic af


	16. The Party - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning!! this chapter gets violent! and also sexy!!! 
> 
> ok just to let y'all know there IS like sexualized violence in this chapter but it's not non-con. i didnt want to spoil it but i also know i might have some people reading that maybe aren't okay with it so there's the warning!!

He was in Holly Horsley's bedroom. Well, he guessed that it was her one. The sheets on the bed were a soft grey, there was an empty pot of tea on the dresser. Various neutral-coloured coats hung along the wall, all perfectly cut. And there was a small Union Jack flag in a vase by the window, peeking out amid red roses. Tinsley picked it up, twirled it around in his fingers. He put it back.

The room was dark. He switched on the lamp beside the bed, looking at the wardrobe, the dresser, the desk, the bedside table. Where to start? He observed his choices like a shopper in front of a rack of clothes. He wandered to the desk drawer, pulling it open. A gun. Of course, a gun. Wait, two guns. He turned them over, one at a time. He wondered which one had been used to kill the Waitress. He put them back. He rifled through it for a bit longer, finding a folded letter, sealed with a wax stamp in gold. The letter L sat firm in the middle. He sat down, peering into the side of it, hoping to catch a word or two. He caught a name in smooth cursive; _Ricky_. He held it for a moment, running a thumb over the wax stamp. Then he put it back in the drawer and closed it.

The dresser was next. The clothes were folded immaculately; blouses in the top drawer, slacks in the second, pajamas in the third. He lifted them one at a time, peering underneath. Nothing. What type of person didn't hide things in their dressers? He closed the drawers with a grumpy mutter.

Holly was smart. He knew that already. She was smart and her job seemed to revolve around keeping the Goldsworths on top, so she was sneaky. She'd have to be. He checked the desk again, feeling the underside of the drawers. His fingers brushed an envelope. He pulled it out, throwing a glance over his shoulder as he opened it. At first he thought it was just torn up paper. Then he saw it was photos of Ricky. He frowned, pulling one out, and it wasn't Ricky. The man had his nose, his shape face, his dark hair, but he was older. Tinsley stared at the face in silence for a moment. Then he put the torn photo back in the envelope with all the others and hid it away again. 

He took a minute to poke his head out into the corridor, to make sure the canary was still singing. He could still hear the curses, each one as furious as the last. He couldn't quite understand them. Well, he knew what _puta_ meant, and he understood his name, and he believed that was enough. He hoped Ricky would wear himself out, maybe conk out on the bed like a toddler after a tantrum. However, that didn't seem likely. The only thing that Tinsley was sure of was that if the canary stopped singing, he was in big trouble.

He turned back to the room at movement out of the corner of his eye. Then he smiled. It was a cat, a pale grey one, camouflaged against the bed sheets. He hurried over to give it a pet, scratching under its chin. It purred, rumbling against his hand. The footsteps were so soft the purring almost hid them.

He spun from side to side, looking for a hiding spot. There were a lot of places, for a man of average height. He, on the other hand, had limited options. He dove under the bed, scrambling right in, biting back a curse as he hit his head off the underside. Then he lay low, and waited. He watched the flat shoes crossing the carpet, slow and sneaky, and not Holly Horsley. He let his hand rest over his mouth in an attempt to quieten his breath, watching Fran tiptoe over to the coats lining the wall. She started searching through the pockets. He couldn't see her, but he could see the ends of the coats moving as she patted them down. Tinsley heard her sigh, watched her cross over to the wardrobe. She started going through the pockets of those clothes too. He wanted to warn her. He wanted to warn her about the person who'd appeared in the bedroom doorway, in her neat blouse and neat slacks. Her head was hidden. Tinsley scooched back anyway.

"What are you looking for?" came Holly's cool voice, cool like steel.

Fran turned on her heel, impressively casual. "Ran out of cigs. Thought I'd scab some off you. My bad."

"Indeed." Holly advanced into the room, her low leather heels muffled against the rug. She passed the end of the bed, pausing right in front of Tinsley's wide eyes. She clicked her tongue a few times. "Come. Get down."

The cat dropped to the rug with indignant _prrp_ , brushing along her leg. Its green eyes landed on him, focused. _No. No no no no_. Fran laughed, exclaiming that she hadn't even noticed the cat, and crouched down to pet it. Her eyes landed on Tinsley's instantly. Her hand froze against the cat. He stared back in horror, hands pressed to the floor.

"And what on earth is Ricky yelling about out there?" said Holly, her feet turning away from Tinsley. "I think he's lost the plot."

"Ha. Yeah." Fran straightened up again, picking the deceitful cat up with her. "I'm gonna go find out."

"Of course you are." She stayed where she was. "Hop along then."

Fran hesitated before moving her feet, strolling towards the door. She closed it behind her. Tinsley swallowed as quietly as he could, the sweat cold on his face. He watched Holly wander forwards a few steps. Then she crossed to the wardrobe, checking the pockets of the clothes. She drew out a gun, seemingly satisfied that it was still there. Then she wiped the handle clean, and placed it back, and left.

Tinsley wriggled out from his hiding spot as elegantly as a deer on ice. He fetched the gun from the pocket, tipping out the cartridge; three bullets missing. Three bullets that shot the Waitress. He noted the make and the caliber before sneaking out.

The canary had stopped singing. Tinsley stopped moving.

He could see the door to Ricky's room was cracked open, the low light shining through. He walked softly up to it, automatically reaching for the pistol under his arm. Tonight, it wasn't there. He mentally cursed himself, throwing a wistful look back down at Holly's room. He could sneak back down, swipe a spare gun from her desk. He peered back into Ricky's room, his whole body relaxing when he saw it was empty. The tie was lying at the bottom of the wall, clearly torn off and flung aside once Fran had loosened it enough. Ricky's shirt was also absent from the floor beside the dresser. He was on the loose. Tinsley brushed his fingers across the cut under his eye, remembering the last time he'd ticked Ricky off. _Really_ ticked him off. It hadn't been pretty.

He closed the bedroom door, resting his hands against it, eyes closed. He hadn't come here tonight to get entangled with Ricky like he seemed to every other day. He'd come to get answers. Or get the appropriate questions in order to wheedle the answers out of these people. His gaze drifted to the parlour, just at the end of the hall. He went to it, slipping into the room. The fire was going strong, although no one else was in the room. Tinsley went straight to the books, taking down the photo album from the few days ago. He flipped through it hastily, searching for a face. Like Ricky's, but not Ricky's. He stopped at one that was a half, the missing side torn away. What was left was Lucy, glowing, her hands resting on her belly. He sighed sharply, tipping the book aside, seeing multiple photos cut or torn. No faces were left in the album if they weren't left in real life. But Tinsley had seen them. 

"You... son of a bitch."

He paused at the growled words. He looked over his shoulder, and wished that he hadn't. Ricky stood silhouetted in the doorway, but even from this distance his eyes flashed with anger. The fire seemed to dance in them. He was a demon straight from the flames, and he was closing the space between them without hesitation.  

Tinsley put out a warning hand. “Don't hit me. I'm warning you, don’t-”

Ricky hit him. He struck him across the face so hard Tinsley wasn't sure if it had been a slap or a punch. The detective fell against the bookshelves, stunned, his wide eyes staring at nothing. He cupped his jaw, checking it hadn't been dislocated. It hurt like hell. He didn't get time to think of what to do next before Ricky tangled his hands in his hair and drove his knee up into the detective's face. Tinsley let out a yell, dropping to the floor, cupping his nose. He was blinded by the pain, but he didn't need his eyes to feel the warmth of the blood dripping through his fingers. He stayed down, tasting the blood spreading across his tongue, dripping over his lips. He dragged himself upright, reddened fingers digging into the wood. Ricky massaged his hand, seemingly waiting for him to turn around.

“I told you that if you laid a finger on me again I'd beat your ass,” said Tinsley thickly, glaring over his shoulder at him. “Don't think I won't.”

“Turn around.”

“I mean it, Ricky. You get one last chance.”

“Turn around.”

Tinsley did so, and he brought his fist with him. He punched the other man across the face, a sharp right hook, hard enough to snap his head aside. Ricky stumbled only a step or two, shaking his head like a dog with a particularly irritating flea. Then Ricky came back at him with a vengeance, teeth bared in a snarl. He tangled a fist in the taller man's hair, dragging him right down and flinging him to the floor. Then he kicked him in the side with enough force to crack a rib, hearing Tinsley's pained yelp. He kicked him again, throwing the detective onto his back. He took him by the collar of his shirt, hauling him halfway off the floor, slamming him against the bookcase. Tinsley took a moment to try and catch his breath, not quite succeeding as Ricky kicked him in the side again with enough force to drive him against the shelves. A few books fell over, a few trinkets rattled, an old clock falling to the floor with a _thud_. Tinsley breathed hard through gritted teeth, his head resting in his elbow, his fists clenched against the ground.

“You won't do shit,” spat Ricky, taking him by the hair again, dragging him away from the wall, from any sort of shelter. “And I've had enough of you.”

Tinsley glared up at him, one hand gripping Ricky's where it was tangled in his hair. He didn't speak. He couldn't. His heart was hammering in his chest as he was essentially dumped on the floor like a bag of trash. He clutched his side as Ricky made himself a messy drink, the liquid sloshing into the glass. He swallowed it whole, head tilting right back. He chucked the glass back onto the table. It shattered with the impact, cracking clean in half. Then he turned back to Tinsley, who was halfway to his feet, holding the nearest chair for balance.

"You really just don't learn your lessons, do you?"

Tinsley wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, sniffing, a wet sound. "No."

"Good." Ricky smiled widely, spreading his hands as he walked towards him again. "Because I'm a _very_ dedicated teacher."

* * *

The Mayor stood at the very edge of the party, close enough so that he could see everything. He could see Fran releasing Ms Horsley's cat into the throng of people. He could see Holly herself at the table with the three pawns, moving them accordingly across the board. He looked at Lucy, who sat at a table surrounded by enemies. That's all the other families were. That's all that they had ever been. Enemies, and rivals, and interests. She was being circled by the vultures already, and they were simply waiting for her to die so that they could pick the carcass clean. And Ricky would be alone, struggling to fend them off. The thought of Ricky being alone in the world frightened the Mayor as much as it saddened him. Lucy would die, and Ricky would be grieving for the rest of his days. Denial, then anger, then bargaining, then depression. Then finally acceptance. The Mayor already knew that Ricky would never pass the second stage. He would be full of rage without Lucy to calm him, and worse, he would be free.

He wondered where Ricky was. His pale eyes scanned the room for a tall messy-haired head. It appeared the detective was missing too. The Mayor didn't have to think too much into that. They were trouble together, no doubt. Perhaps he should've hit the detective harder that night.

Holly came over to him, offering him a glass of deep red wine. He gratefully accepted; it wasn't often he was on the receiving end of such service. "Having a good night, Mayor?"

"Parties were never quite my scene, ma'am."

"Me neither." She eyed the drunken people, the loud laughter and lewd jokes being thrown asunder. Her eyes sharpened as they landed on Lucy. "Where's her damned son."

"I assume he's with Detective Tinsley, ma'am."

"Of course. The concupiscent little demon." She tutted under her breath, her fingers rubbing against each other as they always did when she was unsettled. She was still staring at Lucy. "I despise the sight of her with them."

"I feel the same, ma'am."

They moved together in unspoken agreement, navigating the crowd until they came to a halt either side of Lucy. The table stared at the two of them with faces ranging from wary to hostile. Lucy looked over her shoulder, letting out a quiet, relieved breath at the sight of her two guardians. Holly gave each head of family a cold look. The Mayor was a statue. 

"Ms Horsley." Jeanne got to her feet, extending a white-gloved hand to shake. "I didn't know you were still around."

Holly gave the hand a disinterested look. "Why would you think otherwise."

"Oh, you know," shrugged the woman, retracting the refused hand. "Retirement comes for all of us, doesn't it? I'm sure it's _just_ around the corner for you."

"I won't be retiring from my job, Jeanne," said Holly coolly. She wasn't interested in feigned niceties. "My job retires me when it's done with me."

"That applies to all of us, doesn't it?" It was a man who spoke, a large brutish man in the chair beside Lucy. He was from a town to the north somewhere. Robert. Richard. She couldn't remember. "Natural causes don't spell the end for the majority of us. Some of us are lucky, I guess!"

Lucy reddened at this. Holly wasn't sure if it was anger or embarrassment. What she was sure of was that if Ricky had been here, he'd have ripped the man's skull from his shoulders before he'd even finished the sentence. Lucy cleared her throat.

"Yes. Lucky."

"Oh, Lucy," gushed an older woman, perhaps about Holly's age. "Apologies. We're just so forgetful, I'm sure you understand."

"It must be strange," said Jeanne with her dark eyebrows raised. She was oh-so-sweet, sickeningly so. "To be the last pedigree Goldsworth. What happens next, hm?"

Lucy turned her eyes to the woman who'd spoken. Her voice was barbed. "My son is a Goldsworth."

"Of course," said the man, giving his white beard a stroke. His dark eyes were predatory as he looked at her. "By name. But he's a mongrel. You can't deny even on your death-"

"Enough," said the Mayor, slicing the air in two. "I'm afraid you'll have to learn to mind your tongue or I'll remove it, sir."

Lucy raised a thin hand to quieten him, to quieten them all. Then she leaned forwards, clearing her throat before speaking softly. "If any of you ever lay a hand on Ricky, if you ever even _touch_ my son, I'll make sure you burn in hell."

Holly noted the instructions. The table dispersed rapidly, more relaxed than they would've been a year ago. They already thought of Lucy as dead and gone. A mistake. A grave mistake. Lucy would never be gone, not as long as Holly was around. She'd make sure they'd never forget Lucía Goldsworth. Holly sat beside her, seeing how tired she looked.

"You should go to bed."

"I can't," said Lucy quietly. "Not while they're all still here."

Holly nodded, dusting off her trousers. "I'll stay with you."

"Thank you." She threw a quick glance around the room, her eyes a bit worried. "Where's Ricky?"

"I'm not sure, ma'am," said the Mayor, one arm resting behind his back as he observed the scene. "I believe he may be with Detective Tinsley."

Lucy pinched the bridge of her nose with a heavy sigh. "Do I need to ask where?"

Holly hummed her disapproval. She heard the Mayor echo it, although more quietly. Even Lucy looked a bit apprehensive. Ricky and Tinsley were forces of nature, unstoppable and immovable respectively. Bound for disaster.

"Do you think I should say something to him?" asked Lucy, sipping at her drink, not tasting it. "I've said it a few times, that Tinsley is trouble, but I don't think he listened."

"I should think so," said Holly, stirring her own drink with her little finger. "We both know what Ricky is like. And we both have the same idea of what Tinsley is like. Together they might just destroy this whole town."

Lucy's gaze was distant. She swilled her drink absentmindedly. "Don't let that happen."

Holly nodded, lighting a cigarette. "Never."

* * *

Tinsley was on the floor, one hand curling into the rug, the other clutching his stomach. He hurt all over. Each breath irritated every fresh bruise. He pressed the side of his face into the rug as he finally managed to suck in another breath, a shuddered one, his eyes squeezed shut. He rolled onto his front, feeling the blood drip slowly from his mouth. It caught onto the rug in dark beads. He let his head hang as he fought to catch his breath.

"Is this fun? Is this fun for you?" Ricky crouched down beside him, flexing his fingers, the knuckles stained with blood that wasn't his. "I told you the two things I'm good at, Tinman. I offered you the sweeter one, and you turned it down. This is your fault."

"Stop." Tinsley clutched at the other man for balance as he was dragged upright to his knees. His fingers held fistfuls of Ricky's shirt, his head rested against his stomach as he panted for air. "Stop it. Ricky."

"Sorry, what's that? You're going to have to speak louder." He pinned the detective to the floor, sitting across his chest, his eyes wild as he wrapped his hands around the man's throat. "C'mon. You never hesitate to run your mouth." His grip tightened, crushing. "Try it now."

Tinsley's fingers clawed across the other man's forearms, leaving red scratches. He bucked his hips, struggling to throw him off. He was going to die. He could see it in Ricky's black eyes, the crazed spark. Tinsley struggled fiercely. His hand found the clock on the floor. He grabbed hold of it, bringing it around and striking Ricky across the face with all the force he could muster. Ricky collapsed to the side, his hands slipping off Tinsley. He didn't move for a minute. Neither of them did.

"Fucker." Tinsley rolled onto his front, dragging himself from under the other man, his hands shaking as he growled the words. "Son of a bitch, I'll kill you."

Ricky spat the blood from his mouth between panted breaths. His head still rang from the blow. He managed to get to his hands and knees in time for Tinsley to take him by the collar of his shirt, haul him off the floor with surprising strength, drive him back against the wall beside them. Tinsley drew his fist back and punched him straight across the jaw. It hurt his hand. He didn't notice. He did it again, hearing Ricky give a snarled curse. He hit him once more, driving his fist into his stomach, feeling Ricky fall against him, coughing for breath.

Tinsley grabbed him by the jaw, fingers digging into his cheeks, forcing his head back against the wall with one sharp shove. The shorter man held his wrist tight, desperately tight, but he wasn't pushing him away. He was watching his mouth with hungry eyes, his own lips parted and shining with blood. It stained his teeth. Tinsley kept a tight hold of his jaw, breathing heavily, their faces inches apart. Ricky's pulse hammered under his hand, but still he didn't struggle. The detective slipped his leg between the shorter man's, hearing the shaky inhale, feeling how hard he was. Tinsley swallowed, tasting the coppery blood on his tongue. Then he pulled Ricky forwards into a starved kiss, taking him so easily. Ricky let out a whimper, one hand leaving Tinsley's wrist to claw into his shoulder. His breaths were trembling as Tinsley broke off, moving back in instantly, his fingers digging into Ricky's cheeks, forcing his head into the right angle. He kissed him on his open mouth, his other hand slipping around, grabbing the man's ass, feeling Ricky jump. Tinsley pressed him back against the wall with his body, his tongue gliding against the other man's, Ricky moaning loudly, the sound ripping from his throat. He was clinging onto the taller man, his knees weak, his head spinning as Tinsley's mouth worked against his, angrily, messily, taking control. Tinsley's hand stayed fixed around the shorter man's jaw, forcing his head back, baring his throat as he leaned in to kiss it, to taste the sweat against his lips. Ricky's eyes fluttered, his mouth parted as he panted for breath, his arm hooking around Tinsley's neck, fingers dragging through his hair. Tinsley's fingers slid down from his jaw, pushing behind Ricky's shirt buttons, ripping them apart to get to the body underneath. Ricky let the shirt be pulled off his shoulders, down off his arms, lost in the feeling of Tinsley's mouth against his neck. He could hardly bear the feeling of the man's fingers brushing his skin as they unbuttoned his trousers. Tinsley wrapped his arms around the man’s waist, fingers digging into his ribs, pulling him away from the wall, aiming for the table. Ricky melted against him, his hands gripping his shoulders for balance, his face flushed, lips reddened. He didn’t seem to care where he was being brought, as long as it was Tinsley who brought him there. He allowed himself to be perched on the edge of the table, Tinsley’s arm hooked around his waist to keep their bodies pressed close as the detective reached around and swept the surface clean. Ricky was shoved back on it, somewhat roughly, but he didn’t care.

He took a moment to try and catch his breath as Tinsley's finger traced down the centre of his stomach, teasingly light, just brushing his skin. He looked Ricky over with dark eyes, leaning forwards, placing his hands on the table. Tinsley kissed him again, a long and deep one, and half of him hated himself for it, and half of him hated the other man for it. His nose pressed into the man's cheek with the force of the kiss. He increased the pressure as he felt Ricky’s legs hook around his hips, felt the man’s hands drawing him closer, strong and sure. He took hold of his body, feeling the bare skin hot against his palms. He let his mouth travel down, down over his chest, pressing kisses down his body, feeling it move under his lips with each harsh breath. His mouth left a faint trail of blood. He heard the moaned curse.

“Fuck. _Fuck_.” Ricky grabbed two fistfuls of the detective’s thick hair, his back rising off the table as the kisses traced above his belt. "Oh fuck."

Tinsley moved back up, his hands lifting Ricky's hips off the table to place them down in a more comfortable angle. “How much do you want it.”

Ricky tried and failed to steady his breaths, fingers digging into the side of the table as he felt a hand push down into his trousers. “I- I want it.”

“Beg for it.”

Ricky gritted his teeth at the quiet words, pushing his head back against the table. “I- I- No.”

Tinsley smiled at the clear struggle on the man’s face, at the sheen of sweat on his skin, on his throat, his chest. It glistened in the firelight. “Really?”

Ricky pushed himself up on his elbows, but his arms gave out instantly, his head hitting off the table as he fell back against it. He writhed on the table, the hand down his trousers not slowing for a second. “I- I-”

“Beg for it.” Tinsley muttered the words into his shoulder, feeling the man’s body twisting and turning under him. “Beg.”

“P- Please,” panted Ricky into his ear, his arms wrapped around the man’s neck, one hand clawing across his shoulders. He heard himself, how embarrassingly desperate the words were. “Please. I want it.”

Tinsley turned him over, pushing him flat on the table, bending him against it. He unbuckled his belt, pulling the other man’s trousers down off his hips. He leaned forwards, muttering the words in Ricky’s ear.

“Stay quiet.”

Ricky nodded, eyes closed, panting for breath. The breaths froze, his fingers clawing the table as he felt the detective push into him, a hand landing on the back of Ricky’s neck to keep him pinned down. His breaths started up again with gasped moans, the side of his face pressed to the table, which was rattling loudly with each hard rut. Ricky bit into his hand to stay quiet, hard enough to break the skin, his eyes squeezed shut. At this rate he was going to be put right through the table. He let out a rough moan as he felt Tinsley’s fingers dig into his hips, pulling him forwards as he fucked him like nothing short of a doll.

“Fuck.” Ricky breathed the word against the table, hands braced against it. The contents rattled loudly, the lamp teetering at the edge before falling to the floor with a smash of a bulb. Ricky didn’t notice. “Fuck me. Harder. _Harder_.”

Tinsley tangled a fist in Ricky’s dark hair, holding his head down against the table, fucking him until the man couldn’t draw breath, let alone make any demands. He watched the way Ricky melted against the desk, a perfect mess of messy hair and sweaty skin and breathless moans. So deceivingly beautiful. He pulled Ricky back against him, fingers wrapped around his throat, feeling the pulse skipping against his hand. “Turn around.”

Ricky did so, letting the detective sit him back up on the table at an angle. He fell back as Tinsley entered him again, one hand pressed to the desk behind him to keep him upright, the other digging into Tinsley’s shoulder for balance. He let his head tilt right back, each panted breath carrying a harsh moan as the detective took over again, fucking him hard and fast and rough. There wasn’t any affection, or softness. Tinsley watched the pleasure take over the other man’s face, and was once again struck by what he was doing, and how utterly wrong it was. This rich brat didn’t deserve what he was getting.

“H-Harder,” panted Ricky, his eyes fluttering, head lolling back. His fingers dug into Tinsley’s shoulder, hurting even through the shirt. “Harder!”

Tinsley leaned forwards, pulled the man firmly against him, burying his face in his shoulder as he drove into him so hard it was bordering on plain violent. Ricky’s fingers dragged down his back, the perfect amount of pain. He wrapped himself tighter around the detective, his harsh breaths hot against his ear. He felt Tinsley slow, rutting up into him at a steady pace, his hands dragging painfully across Ricky’s skin as if he wanted to tear him to shreds, his low moans delicious. Ricky hooked an arm around the man’s shoulders, their open mouths pressed together, but they didn’t meet properly. They couldn’t. Tinsley pulled Ricky’s hips hard into each thrust, slowly growing fast again, rough, their mouths staying close, close enough to brush with each movement.

“Ah- Ah- Ah-” Ricky knew he sounded embarrassing; his moans were high-pitched, breathless, desperate, but he couldn’t help it. He kept one arm around Tinsley’s neck, the other reaching over to claw into the man’s back, the shirt under his fingers damp with sweat. “Ah- Ah, fuck, I- Fuck me- AH-”

Tinsley finished with a drawn-out groan, muffled by Ricky’s shoulder. He lowered Ricky down onto the desk, laying on top of him for a long moment as he caught his breath, as he made sure he wasn’t about to slip into cardiac arrest. But he didn’t, so he straightened up, pushing his damp hair back off his face. Ricky stayed down, his head turned aside, his eyes closed, a small smile on his face. Satisfaction in one picture. Tinsley stepped back, zipping himself up, buckling his belt. He lit up a cigarette before collapsing back into the nearest armchair.

“Mmm.” Ricky shifted on the table, his body stretched out just for the other man to see, slick and strong in the firelight. “Where the hell have you been hiding that.”

Tinsley didn’t reply, looking away from the view. “When I leave, you wait for a while before following.”

“I think I’ll have to.” Ricky didn’t move to go, eyes still closed. “But God, it’s worth it.”

He rested his head in his hand, covering his eyes. “Christ.”

“No need to sound quite so ashamed.” Ricky sat upright, wiping a hand across his mouth. “I’m not exactly proud either.”

“Mmhmm.” Tinsley basically inhaled the cigarette whole. “Great.”

Ricky pulled his trousers back on, raising an eyebrow at the detective as he fetched his shirt. “If you didn’t want to fuck me, maybe you shouldn’t have done it.”

“If only it was that simple.” Tinsley gave him a sidelong look as the man walked a tad stiffly to the door. “Where are you going?”

Ricky paused at the door, mid-way through wiping his face clean with the shirt in his hands. “What?”

Tinsley tilted his head aside. “I didn’t expect you to tap out so soon. But alright.”

Ricky arched an eyebrow at this, letting his hand slip off the door handle. He moved back across the room, shrugging his shirt back on, but leaving it open. He straddled Tinsley in his chair, smiling slyly, the detective’s lowered gaze watching his mouth. Ricky unbuttoned the other man’s shirt, resting his hands on his chest, propping himself up as he leaned in to kiss his neck. Tinsley closed his eyes, taking a drag on his cigarette, his free hand slipping around to grab Ricky’s ass unashamedly. He let his other hand do the same, head tilted back to let Ricky’s mouth have free reign.

“You’re on this earth just to torture me, aren’t you,” muttered Tinsley, lashes fluttering as the kisses grew harder against his throat, as Ricky started rocking his hips slowly.

“No.” Ricky smiled, one hand cupping the detective’s face as he whispered the words hot into his ear. “I’m on this earth to torture everyone.”

* * *

Darla paused in the hallway. "I _definitely_ heard it that time."

"Shh." Fran giggled, taking the other woman's hand as she brought her onward through the upstairs corridors. "It doesn't matter. Whatever it is."

"Am I just really drunk?" She balanced against the shorter woman as she kicked her heels off, resting back on her feet. The unsteadiness remained. "Oh shit."

"Shh! You're being loud." Fran grinned at her. "Look, I've hidden some marijuana in my room, so we can just-"

"Why do you have to hide it?" asked Darla in confusion, following her in a vague line. "Doesn't this family sell cocaine?"

"Sell only," said Francesca with a strict raise of a finger. "They don't use."

The distant whimpering reached her again. "Can you not hear that?"

"No, I don't- Where are you going?" Fran hissed the words after her. "Darla. _Darla_."

Darla cracked open the door, and it was exactly what she thought it would be. Ricky's head was pressed back against the armchair, his eyes shut, mouth open. One hand dug into the armchair behind his head. The other was curled in Tinsley's hair, down where the man's head was between his legs. Ricky let out another panted moan, his bare chest rising and falling hard with each breath. His back arched away from the chair, shaking with the strain as Tinsley kept his hips pinned down; even from here she could see how hard the detective's fingers clawed into them.

"I- I'm gonna-" Ricky paused as another moan ripped from his throat, his head pushing back against the chair, throat bared in the firelight. "I'm- I'm gonna come- I-"

Darla couldn't move, a wave of dread filling her at the sight of them. Tinsley broke away, pressing kisses up along the man's body, adding to the long list of men who found themselves on their knees before Ricky Goldsworth for one reason or another. Begging for mercy, begging for pleasure, but on their knees nonetheless.

"What?" whispered Fran, on her tiptoes in an effort to see over her shoulder. "What is it?"

Darla shuffled aside to let her see, hearing the quiet curse. "Yeah. I know."

Ricky had the detective on the rug in front of the fire now, straddling his hips, settling onto him with a low sigh. His dark shirt stuck to him, moved with the body underneath it. He leaned forwards as he started rocking his hips slowly, kissing Tinsley's neck, a savage one, teeth grazing his skin, hands pressed to his chest. The detective let a breathless moan slip out, one hand on the back of Ricky's neck, the other gripping his hip. The two women froze as Ricky's eyes suddenly landed on them, black and feral, like a tiger over his prey. They waited in horrified silence for him to yell, or curse, or shout at them to leave. He didn't do any of these things. His hips continued moving, grinding into Tinsley. He sat back, bringing the detective with him, drawing his head against his chest in a gesture so possessive it was frightening. His eyes stayed on the two women, hot as the coals a few feet away. Darla snapped back to her senses and closed the door. The silence lingered.

"Fuck," whispered Darla, looking at Fran with large eyes. "Are we in trouble?"

"No." Fran shook her head, leading her away. "No. Just don't mention it to Holly."

"You say that a lot."

"Oh?" Fran lowered her gaze, turning away. "Didn't notice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if there's anything any of y'all feel like i should tag as a warning as well, LET ME KNOW on the ol' tumblr.com
> 
> and if i ever use any phrases / words / terms any of u don't get pls don't hesitate to ask either!! (i'm irish so i may accidentally use an irish phrase every now and then)
> 
> btw if i could choose someone to play the Mayor it'd be Charles Dance i just want y'all to know


	17. Cruel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw!!  
> from here on and also in part 2 there'll be bits of nsfw throughout, so I'd just advise maybe not reading this in places where u can't read nsfw stuff!! 
> 
> i changed the chapters again!!  
> but this is the last change. the chapters are the way they are now. I'm just gonna cry writing the last one

He opened his eyes slowly. He wasn't confused, or surprised. He knew where he was, he knew who he was with. He pushed himself onto his elbows, careful not to wake the other man. Half of Ricky's face was visible, the other half disguised by the pillow he was sound asleep on. He looked different without the usual glare, or sneer, or cruel smile. He looked younger, more innocent. Tinsley knew better than to fall for that.

He lay down on his side, away from Ricky, and closed his eyes. He was still tired. Exhausted, more specifically. Ricky was insatiable. It had been well past midnight before they'd started to slow, entangled under the covers, bodies sliding against each other, hands grabbing, fingers digging in. He'd never been so angry during sex before, so spiteful, and it had been returned tenfold. His back stung with scratches where Ricky's hands had dragged down. He pushed his face into the pillow, willing himself to go back to sleep. He couldn't. He rolled onto his back, glaring at the ceiling. This was not where he had intended on staying. He'd intended on avoiding Ricky, and finding answers, and leaving early. He'd failed from the first. He felt the covers move as Ricky pushed himself up on his elbows, his heavy-lidded eyes watching Tinsley's face.

"You're still here."

Tinsley gave him a narrow-eyed look. "At least I have the option to leave. Seeing as I can still walk."

Ricky just smiled wryly, a hand cupping the detective's stubbled cheek, tilting his head towards him. "Oh don't look at me like that, baby."

"Get off me." Tinsley sat upright, ignoring the bit-back smile on the other man's face. He sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. He hurt all over, as if he'd run a grueling marathon. "Christ."

Ricky lay beside him, his head resting over the side of the bed. He smiled. "I'll admit, I'm pleasantly surprised, detective. I didn't think you'd have it in you."

Tinsley let a hand drift out, a finger running slowly along the man's sharp jaw, stopping at his chin. "Well I hope you made the most of it."

"And why's that?"

"Because it won't be happening again."

Ricky took his hand, bringing it down to rest around his throat. He smiled slyly as Tinsley's eyes wandered down his face, making his previous sentence seem quite empty indeed. "Sure."

Tinsley's thumb brushed across the man's full lips, tugging lightly at the bottom one. His gaze was heavy, his words were bitter. "You're beautiful."

Ricky let his lips part, letting out a quiet breath as Tinsley's thumb slipped in, sliding back out, running along his lip. His touch was strikingly soft, so different from the night before, yet twice as cruel. Neither of them moved when the phone rang, their gazes locked. After the fourth or fifth, Ricky finally rolled aside, reaching over and taking the receiver off the hook.

"What."

"It's Chief McClintock, sir."

"What? Why?"

"For the detective."

Ricky gritted his teeth, sparing a glance over his shoulder at Tinsley, who was clearly listening in. "Fine. He'll take it."

He passed the phone to Tinsley, who put it to his ear. He looked a bit embarrassed, seeing as Banjo had known exactly where he was. Maybe the whole town knew he was in Ricky's bed. "Yeah?"

"Ah. You're... there." Banjo cleared his throat, pausing for a few seconds. "Can you talk?"

Tinsley nodded, ignoring the feeling of Ricky's warm hands brushing against his skin as the man pressed against his back, chin resting on his shoulder. "Mm."

"I was wondering if we could meet for lunch? Discuss what I, uh, mentioned to you last night."

Tinsley nodded, his eyes fluttering closed as Ricky's mouth pushed under his jaw. He reached behind him, running a hand through the man's dark hair. "Mmhmm."

"It's quite, uh, important. What time would suit you? The sooner the better, I think!"

Tinsley held the phone loosely, feeling himself beginning to slip away as Ricky's hands ran over his chest, mouth working against his neck. "I- Sure. Yeah."

A confused pause. "What time?"

"Okay. Sounds- Sounds good." Tinsley turned his head aside, kissing Ricky hard, dropping the phone. It hit against the bedside table, hanging on the cord. Banjo's puzzled voice was distant.

Ricky let himself be pushed back on the bed, the detective's body flush against his, their mouths slotting together amid the low sighs they let out. He smiled to himself as Tinsley's lips traveled down along his neck, where they'd left many a mark already. He heard a light, hesitant knocking on the door. "No! Go away!"

The maid eagerly left, scurrying past the Mayor. He stared at the door to the bedroom with cold eyes. Then he stepped forwards himself and knocked harder. "Mr Goldsworth, breakfast is ready."

There was a few muttered words. Then Ricky opened the door, wrapped in his dark blue dressing robe, pulling it tight around his waist. He glared up at the Mayor. "Can't breakfast wait? I'm trying to enjoy a different meal right now."

The Mayor looked over his head at the detective, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, shrugging his shirt on over his shoulders. "I'm afraid not, sir. Your mother would like you to be there."

Ricky tutted under his breath. "Right. I'll be down in a few minutes."

"She also requested that the detective be there."

Ricky's face froze solid. He looked over his shoulder, seeing Tinsley's own face drained of colour. "No. No, that won't be happening."

"She specifically requested it, sir."

Ricky's jaw clenched, his wide eyes looking aside. He stepped into the hallway and shut the door over behind him. "Why. Why is she requesting that."

"I don't quite know, sir."

"I'm not- I won't-" He exhaled sharply, arms folded across his chest. He paced back and forth, albeit stiffly. The Mayor pressed his lips together in a line to stop himself from smiling, or worse still, laughing. Ricky came to a halt. "Was it Holly's idea."

"I can't disclose that, sir."

"I fucking knew it. She's just trying to shame me into- into-"

"I believe so."

He chewed on his lip, throwing an uneasy glance at the door, which unfortunately opened at that moment. Tinsley avoided their eyes as he stepped around them, pulling his belt on. He was positively fleeing, his wild hair bouncing on his head with each step. Ricky let him go, turning his head the other way. He waited until he was sure Tinsley had found his way out of the manor. Then he went down to breakfast. He strolled right into the dining room, stretching leisurely as he did so.

"Morning, _mamá_."

"Good morning, _mi tesoro_." She raised her eyebrows at him over her paper. "Where's Tinsley?"

"Gone." Ricky threw a glower at Holly, who sat across from him, stirring her cup of tea inconspicuously with a long steel spoon. "And before anyone starts probing, I'm not going to explain myself to any of you."

"Oh I'm sure you've had enough probing for one night."

"Shut up, Fran." He sat down at an angle, legs crossed. The Mayor poured him a ceramic cup of hot coffee. "Stop looking at me."

"But how was it?" asked Fran eagerly, poking at her omelette. "Was he good?"

"Look at him, Francesca," said Holly disapprovingly. "He looks like he's been dragged through a hedge backwards."

"And your _neck_ , Ricky," said Lucy, shaking her head. "You can't walk around in public like that."

Ricky just grinned into his cup, throwing Fran a wink. "I'll tell you later."

"You shouldn't be proud, Ricky," said Holly with a flat look. She lifted her tea to her mouth. "You'll be walking around looking like a harlot for the next week."

"Don't sound quite so jealous." He didn't bother stifling his yawn, letting his chin fall into his hand when he was done. " _Dios mío_ , I'm tired. How late were you up?"

"The last guests left forty-five minutes ago, sir," said the Mayor in his slow voice. "I believe it was Robert Branson and his son."

"I hate that guy," muttered Ricky, adding half a teaspoon of sugar to his coffee. "I hate both those guys."

"And so you should," said Holly, spearing a piece of grapefruit with her fork. She turned it over, examining it through her glasses. "Just as much as you should hate a certain detective."

Ricky threw her a dry look, letting his cup hit off the table. "I do hate him. I think that's pretty clear."

"It was crystal clear, until you blurred it with your antics."

"Oh so now I'm in love with him, is that what you think?"

"Please stop arguing," said Lucy quietly, her eyes hidden behind her hand. The rings seemed too heavy for her fingers. "Just... shh."

Holly gave him a stern look over her glasses. _We'll talk later._ He scowled into his coffee. Fran raised her eyebrows at the ensuing silence, chewing her breakfast slowly. She looked at the Mayor, whose mouth turned down ever so slightly at the corners as he looked back. Then he looked at the table. He looked at Lucy, and how tired she was. He looked at Holly and her bubbling anxiety at the unfolding situation. He looked at Ricky and the trouble in his eyes. He finally looked at nothing, and settled with that.

* * *

Tinsley stopped by his apartment first. He should get his coat, he thought, and turn the collar up in an attempt to disguise some of the bruises on his skin, left by either Ricky's mouth or fists. He couldn't quite remember. He pulled his shirt collar aside slightly as he looked in the mirror, seeing quite a dark mark just above his collarbone. That was from Ricky's mouth. He could still feel it; the heat, the ferocity, the intensity, Ricky's body sliding against his, rough and wet. He'd never met a man who made love so viciously. He looked himself over in the mirror again, hands pressed either side of the sink. He looked as though he'd been in a terrible fight. And he had been, for a time.

He had a shower as hot as he could bear, but he still couldn't seem to get rid of him. Ricky's hands clawed across his skin, marking his territory. Tinsley leaned against the wall, his elbows pressed to it, running his hands through his hair as the hot water stung the scratches on his back. It took him a long while to relax; a long while, and a few drinks. He lit a cigarette as he left, feeling a bit more at home in his body. He crossed the road, ignoring the few whispers of the people he passed. A rapid knocking on a window made him pause, turning his head to see Darla's expectant face looking back. She beckoned him into the shop. He reluctantly went.

"Well?" She glanced at the closed door to Fear's office, keeping her voice a hushed whisper. "What was it like?"

He clenched and unclenched his jaw a few times, rolling the cigarette around in his fingers. "What was what like."

"Oh come on." She raised a dark eyebrow, sitting back down at her davenport and twiddling a pen in her hand. "You look like you had a _wild_ night."

He rubbed at his nose, giving a quiet sniff. "Yeah. It was- It was intense."

"Intense?" Her smile dropped slightly, eyes narrowing. "In what way?"

"I just- It was- It was hateful, I guess." He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding her eyes. "Yeah. It was... hateful. And it was angry. But it was good, y'know?"

She nodded, taking out a cigarette of her own. "I never really expected anything else. I mean, Ricky's not exactly a grand romantic, is he?"

"No. No, he's not."

"And are you okay?"

He looked up at the worried edge to her voice, raising an eyebrow. "I- I don't know, really. I mean, I liked it. I liked it a lot. And I think that's what has me a bit on edge."

"Oh."

"It was just like..." He pulled a chair over, sitting down before speaking quietly to her. "Half the reason I look like this is because we got in a fight beforehand. I mean an actual fight. And then we just had this- this crazy angry sex and it was _great_. But now I feel... I don't know. Dirty. Or ashamed. Both. Just- Just not nice, anyway."

She nodded, legs crossed as she sat back. "Would you do it again?"

"I don't know." He scratched at his jaw. He should've shaved, but he'd forgotten. "I'd like to think I wouldn't."

Darla gave him a worried once-over, taking a pull of her cigarette. Then she spoke without thinking. "Don't let him use this."

Tinsley looked at her, his brows drawing together slightly. "What?"

"He-" She glanced over her shoulder at Fear's office. The frosted glass showed no movement behind it. "This is what he does. This is what _they_ do. They find some way of making you feel wrong in yourself. Wrong in your own mind, or your own body. And then they find a way to take that worry off your chest, and then they own you forever." She didn't blink once as she spoke, her eyes serious. "Don't let him use this. Don't let him own you."

He replied after a moment's silence, and the word was hard as stone. "Never."

She didn't speak again until he was at the door. "My mom used to read me a poem when I was younger. At the time I thought it was just fun. But I think it was a warning about what life is like here."

He looked over his shoulder at her, a hand resting on the door. "What was it?"

She thought for a long while, her gaze distant. When she spoke, she spoke slowly, carefully. "Walls have ears, doors have eyes, trees have voices, beasts tell lies, beware the rain, beware the snow, beware the man you think you know." Then she nodded. "Yes. That was it." She finally looked back at him, her eyes sharpening again. "Beware the man you think you know, detective. You can't trust anyone here."

He left with those words spinning around his head, ringing like a bell. Because of this, he was distracted, and because he was distracted, he didn't notice a shadow creeping down the church steps behind him.

"Detective, can I have a word?"

Tinsley blinked a few times, sparing a look at the Minister. "Uh, yeah. Sure. I'm on my way somewhere, though."

"Aye, it won't take a minute. And it's a lovely day for a walk anyway, isn't it?"

 _Depends who with_. "Sure."

"Now, Banjo was telling me," began the Minister as they diverted down an alley to the Boardwalk. Tinsley remembered this alley. Everywhere seemed poisoned by Ricky now. "That you're thinking about... changing this town."

"If the opportunities present themselves, then yes, I'll try."

“The Goldsworths keep the peace better than you or I or anyone else could ever hope to,” replied the Minister firmly, facing out to sea as they meandered along the Boardwalk. It was a warm afternoon, a breeze in the air soft as a lover’s touch. “You know that.”

“I don’t know that.” The breeze ruffled the detective’s thick hair playfully, a stark difference to the grim look on his face. “I know that you believe that. And I know that they make you believe that.”

Fitzgerald ducked his head aside, cursing the other man’s unshakable stance. “Are you happy here, detective?”

A skipped beat. “As happy as anywhere else.”

“Don’t you miss Chicago?” The Minister finally looked at him, wearing an innocent smile that he knew was being cut to pieces by the taller man’s sharp gaze. “A small beach town must be a big change from a bustling city, mm?”

Tinsley looked ahead, rolling his cigarette in his fingers. “There’s nothing for me in Chicago. I’m here because I can make a difference here.”

“You make a difference everywhere you go.”

“Then I may as well stay where I am.” He came to a halt, turning to face the Minister, who was watching the painted clouds above as if they were actually interesting. “Why are we talking about this?”

“I just- You seem unhappy here, detective. I was just concerned.”

“Well let me ease your worries,” said Tinsley with enough dryness for the air to crack between them. “I’m staying here because this is my life now. I don’t quit halfway through a case. Because I’m not in the Goldsworths’ pocket.“

Fitzgerald took a deep breath, letting it out heavily. “You’d probably be better at your job if you were happier, detective. That’s all.”

“Okay.”

“And I’d like you to be happy. Everyone would.”

“Sure.”

Fitzgerald squinted up at him against the sunlight. “Wouldn’t you be happier in Chicago?”

Tinsley stared at him in hard silence. He dropped his cigarette and stood it out. Then he just gave him a simple nod, and strode back down the Boardwalk with the air of a soldier going into battle. Lunch with Banjo would have to wait, especially if he was just going to relive the conversation he'd just had.

* * *

Holly sat alone by the wall of windows overlooking the bay. A waiter came and gave her her coffee. She requested another one be brought. She'd just seen the detective come down the Boardwalk towards the restaurant, and she highly doubted it was a coincidence that he was coming this way. He didn't wait to be greeted or seated. He just crossed the quiet restaurant towards her, pulled out the seat across from her, and sat himself down. He shrugged his coat off, seemingly unashamed of the marks along his neck. He stared at her. She stared back coolly.

"Good afternoon, detective." She stirred her coffee. "I see you found your way out of Ricky's bed."

"Yes. But I won't be finding my way out of this town. Sorry to disappoint."

She arched a grey eyebrow ever so slightly. "And why are you so insistent on staying?"

"Because I'm not done here."

"Oh, I see. You'll engage with Ricky until you get bored of him and leave, or he gets bored of you and kills you in your sleep. I understand." She kept her voice level as the waiter dropped the other coffee to the table. Tinsley narrowed his eyes at it. "You're not the first to fall so blindly at his feet."

"I haven't fallen anywhere."

"Except into his bed."

"And what's it to you?" demanded Tinsley, not reaching for the coffee. 

"It's everything to me," she replied icily. "Lucy will pass, sooner rather than later, unfortunately. And Ricky will have to take her place. He can't have a man like you riling him up whenever you get bored."

"A man like me," repeated Tinsley dryly. "At least I've figured out a way to control him. How are you coming along on that front, hm?"

She almost laughed. Almost. For Holly, this might as well have been a robust chuckle. "You think you can control him just like that?"

"He does what I say."

"He does what you say as long as you keep pleasing him. Which I suggest you don't get into the habit of doing." She sipped her hot coffee, casual. "Men who dare follow him to bed don't tend to leave it alive."

Tinsley watched her for a long moment. He was an intelligent man, she had known that from the start. His eyes were quiet and curious. "You care about him."

"I do. I helped raise him, after all."

Tinsley took the spoon from the saucer that held his cup of coffee. He put it into the liquid, giving it a slow stir. "So you see him as some sort of son, do you."

"Yes."

"And you don't think I'm good enough for him."

She studied his face as closely as he'd studied hers. He was handsome, distinctively so. "I think you bring bad luck with you everywhere you go. And I think you often hurt the people you love. You're that kind of man."

He stopped stirring. "You think you can label me?"

"Yes."

He gritted his teeth hard; it was clear in the set of his jaw. "Well I can label you too. As a murderer."

She lifted her cup to her mouth. "There's no need to whisper, detective. I killed that waitress because I had to."

"Why."

"I'm sure you've gathered why," she replied dryly. "She was a Montepulciano. The Mayor never drowned that baby, although it would've been much less cruel had he just done it then. Not let her grow up and begin to hope. No, she was a dead woman walking her entire life. And then she got engaged to Ricky's half-brother." She tutted at the inconvenience of it all. "Love makes even the most intelligent people foolish."

He stared at her. "How do you know all this."

"Because it's my job," she said. "When I started, it was a requirement that each family and household member tell me every single little thing they'd done or seen or heard, so I can do my job. The Mayor told me about the Montepulciano girl. Lucy told me about her husband's affairs and his other children. I put two and two together quite quickly."

"Your job." He folded his arms on the table between them, leaving the coffee be. "And what is your job."

"Accounts, mainly."

"What sort of accounts?"

Her hard mouth smiled a small smile. "I don't think you'd want to know."

"As an authority unto myself, I'm going to have to insist that I do."

"You aren't an authority unto yourself, detective," she said softly. "Not if you choose to stay."

He gave her a long hard stare. His voice was steel. "I am always an authority unto myself. Always."

"You'll break," she replied flippantly, turning her gaze back to the view outside. It seemed the conversation was winding to an end. "You'll break so slowly you won't even notice it happening."

"And who'll be doing this breaking, hm?"

She raised her eyebrows in convincing innocence. "Oh, not me. I don't enjoy slow breaks. I appreciate a nice clean _snap_." She clicked her fingers to emphasize the point. "But others enjoy a slow one. They enjoy it very much." She looked him over, an eyebrow raised. "He'll break you slowly, detective. No doubt about it. And he'll cherish every second of it."

* * *

It was late. His office was empty. Tinsley studied the framed photo in front of him, his family. His mother and father. Her. And the little one in her arms. He couldn't remember getting a photo of them, any of them. He touched it lightly, just in case it shattered to pieces in front of him. Maybe he wanted it to break apart, to crumble, just like they all had done in reality. He picked it up, looking at her. Even in the black-and-white colours her hair was the darkest red. He finally noticed the shine of gold on his hand. He stared at the ring in shocked silence.

"Charlie, my love."

He couldn't look up. He couldn't look at her. She sounded so soft. He turned the ring on his finger. It was impossibly heavy.

"Charlie." She sounded closer now, harsher. "It was your fault. All of it. Always."

"No." He shook his head, finally looking up. "No, it-"

"Shh. You'll wake her." She stood at the side of his desk, her red hair bundled atop her head. In her arms was a blanket, a soft blue. "Look at her. A little treasure."

Tinsley stared at the blanket in silence. He slowly rose to his feet, and moved to stand beside her. He stared at the contents of the blanket, at the darling little face with its chubby cheeks and sparkly eyes. The sight blurred.

"Hold her for a minute, would you?"

He nodded, too choked up to reply. He'd never wanted anything so much in his life. He reached for the baby. Then she suddenly drew the baby away again, her eyes stuck to something behind him. Her words were sharp. "Who is that?"

"What? I-" He went quiet as he saw who she was glaring at. He put a hand out towards him. "Ricky, no. Not now."

Ricky crawled across the desk, stealthy as an animal, his eyes burning black. He kneeled on the side of the desk, his hands cupping Tinsley's face as he let his tongue run up over the detective's lips, slow, eliciting a trembling breath from him.

"No." Tinsley took hold of his wrists, but he couldn't move him. The man was strong, terribly strong. "Not- Not now."

"Why not," purred Ricky, drawing the detective harder against him. "Because of her? You don't need her. You have me." He eased the ring off Tinsley's finger, head tilted aside. "What's this?"

"Ring. My ring."

"Oh? Interesting."

Ricky put it on his tongue and it melted like wax. He spread it down over his bottom lip, letting it drip off his chin in golden strings. It sizzled as it hit the floor. Tinsley put a hand out, both hands, trying to catch it, to save it. It dripped through his fingers like blood.

"No," he whispered.

Ricky unbuttoned his black shirt before taking the other man's hand, trailing his fingertips up his stomach, his parted lips inches from Tinsley's. "Take me."

"I- I-"

"Take me, Tinsley." He breathed the words against his mouth. "I'm yours."

Tinsley looked around. They were alone. "Where- Where did they-"

Ricky slid off the desk, guiding the detective back into his chair, straddling him firmly. He kissed him, and Tinsley fell apart just like that. He let Ricky pull open his belt, their mouths still glued, fiercely passionate. Tinsley let out a broken moan as he felt the man settle onto him. He didn't try to resist, or even want to resist. He was weak and pathetic and Ricky was strong, so strong and consuming and his bare skin burned like hellfire.

"R- Ricky." He said the name like a prayer. "I- I-"

Ricky rocked his hips up and down, moving them in a slow circle as he did so, his arms wrapped around the detective's shoulders, face buried in the crook of his neck. He pushed up and down along the man's length, his own moans short and soft, a hand running up through Tinsley's thick hair. He whispered the words hot into his ear. "I'm gonna fuck you like you're paying me."

Tinsley didn't make a sound at all. He tilted his head back, eyes fluttering, the pleasure spreading through him in waves. His hands rested on Ricky's waist, feeling the muscles sliding under his fingers. Ricky melted against him, letting out quiet whines, his hips the only part of his body moving, teasingly slow. Tinsley let a rough sigh escape through gritted teeth, feeling Ricky quicken the pace ever so subtly, the man's body rubbing against his, lithe and strong.

"Fuck." Ricky positively whimpered the words, his hands clawing into Tinsley's chest as he started riding him harder, chin on his shoulder. "Fuck, I- God, _fuck_."

Tinsley went to grab hold of him, feeling the ropes tighten around his wrists. His eyes opened, but he couldn't think straight, he couldn't even breathe. His fingers gripped the arms of the chair hard, nails digging in as Ricky grabbed hold of the back of the chair for balance, riding him hard and fast, panting for breath, each exhale carrying a harsh moan. Tinsley tried to take hold of him again, the ropes burning into his skin.

"Ah- Ah- Ah- _Ah_ -" Ricky moaned right against his mouth, against the gag that now covered it, that kept him silent. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ ah, fuck me-"

Tinsley's back arched away from the chair, pushing his hips up against Ricky's, begging for him to finish him off. He couldn't speak, he couldn't hold him, he couldn't get away from him. He felt Ricky's hand grab hold of his jaw, painfully tight, forcing his head right back. Then Ricky leaned in and sank his teeth into his bared throat. Tinsley felt the blood running down his chest, felt Ricky's teeth cut in deeper, his grip get tighter, his hips move faster, owning him entirely. It was the sweetest feeling on the planet.

Then Ricky pulled away with a spray of red and ripped a hole open in Tinsley's throat.

Tinsley jolted awake, sucking in a lungful of air as he clutched at his throat. He was fine. He was fine. He was shaking and he was sweating and he was sick, but he was fine. He sat upright, panting for breath as he leaned forwards, pushing his hands through his damp hair. His bedsheets were damp too, uncomfortably so. He sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out in the dark, fumbling a cigarette from the packet and lighting it. It was the only piece of light in the room. He rested his head in his hand, covering his eyes. The nightmare was branded into his mind like a curse. Every single bit.

He answered the phone after the first few rings, putting it to his ear. He cleared his throat before muttering: "Tinsley."

"Tinsley," came the lax response. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"...You did, actually." It wasn't technically a lie.

"My sincerest apologies." Ricky's smirk was evident in his purred voice. "But I couldn't seem to resist calling you."

Tinsley exhaled the smoke sharply. "Desperate for a chat, were you?"

"Mm." A quiet sigh. "I can't seem to sleep."

"Pity."

"And I was wondering if you could... help me out."

He looked up at this, gaze fixed on the wall. He should hang up, and pull the cord from the wall, and throw the entire phone right out the window. Instead he lay back, propping himself up on an elbow as he smoked slowly. "Help you out?"

"Don't make me beg, baby."

Tinsley got shivers at the term. He wasn't sure if he felt good or not. "I think it would benefit us both if you did."

A quiet laugh. "I don't have to get on my knees now, do I?"

"You wouldn't want to?"

"I'd prefer it if _you_ did. You have a talent for it." Another chuckle slipped out. "Yes, that was a mouth that's had many visitors, I think."

"I've done fairly well."

"I doubt anyone in this town has any idea of what a _wild_ lover you are," grinned Ricky.  

"I'm a lover, am I?"

"Oh, no doubt about it." Ricky sighed quietly, the sound making Tinsley's pulse skip a beat. "I'll admit, I enjoyed the beginning. Sometimes it's refreshing to be screwed like a whore. Just bent over the nearest piece of furniture and fucked like it's the only reason I'm alive. And for you, maybe it is. I'd make you a rich man if it meant you'd fuck me like that again." His voice dropped, breathy. "But later you changed, Tinsley. You made love to every inch of me." Another hard sigh. "I- I- Fuck, I want you here."

Tinsley listened to the low panted breaths, his own hand inching towards his underwear. He snatched it away, sitting more upright. "How about you come to me."

"I'll be there in ten."

Tinsley put the phone down, finishing his cigarette. He took his shirt off the floor, shrugging it on as he went into the sitting room. He turned on the light, changing his mind and turning it off again. He didn't want people seeing. Which was strange, he supposed. People would pay good money to be seen with a man like Ricky Goldsworth hanging off their arm. No, people who didn't know Ricky Goldsworth would. He was eye candy, but put him on your tongue and he'd kill you quicker than cyanide. Nonetheless, he opened the door when Ricky knocked.

Ricky was on him in seconds, legs wrapped around his hips, arms around his neck, their mouths fierce against each other as Tinsley walked back to the couch, sitting down, hands gripping Ricky's ass as he settled him comfortably across his hips. Ricky tugged his pajama shirt off over his head, tossing it aside. He reached down between them, taking hold of him through his boxers, breaking off to smile against Tinsley's lips.

"Well you're just ready to go, aren't you." Ricky ran his mouth down along the detective's neck, murmuring the words. "Maybe I will get on my knees for you after all."

Tinsley waited until the man did exactly that before cupping his jaw, tilting his head back to look up at him. The man's eyes glinted in the dark. "This isn't going to become a regular thing between us, alright?"

Ricky pushed his body up along the detective's, pressing a light kiss to his chest. "And why not."

"Because the people in this town respect me," replied Tinsley firmly, taking hold of him by the throat and pushing him back to stop the distracting kisses against his skin. He could feel either side of the man's jaw pressing into his hand. "And I'm not going to become known as Ricky Goldsworth's honey. Is that clear?"

Ricky nodded despite the hand around his neck, running his fingers up along the man's forearm. "Of course, baby."

Tinsley narrowed his eyes at him. "Don't call me that."

Ricky smiled again, wearing Tinsley's fingers around his neck with the same nonchalance as he would a crown on his head. "Well what _can_ I call you? Sweetheart? Loverboy? My darling?"

"You can call me Tinsley."

"Well you can call me anything you like."

Tinsley tucked a finger under the man's chin, brushing a thumb across his lips. "Anything."

"Anything." A smile pulled at the corner of Ricky's mouth, but it didn't quite take over. He lifted Tinsley's hand from his throat to his lips, softly kissing his palm before speaking so quietly it was dangerous. "But for tonight, you can call me yours."

Tinsley's eyes travelled down his face, what he could see of it in the dark. That was when he realized that this man was ten times worse in reality than he could possibly be in any nightmare. "Mine."

"Every piece of me." He crawled back up onto him, taking the man's hand and pushing it down into his underwear. He let out a little moan, his eyes closing. "All- All yours."

 _All mine_. Tinsley kept his lowered gaze on the other man's parted lips, his hand down below, stroking him teasingly slow. "...You know, I had a dream."

"Yeah?" breathed Ricky, his elbows on the back of the couch behind the detective's shoulders. He pushed his hips forwards into the hand working him up. "Fuck. _Fuck_."

"And you were in it," mumbled Tinsley, Ricky's panted breaths hot against his lips. "And you were... in a similar situation as to now. A similar... position."

Ricky's eyes opened slightly, a smile flitting across his mouth. He reached down, kissing the man hard as he pulled his boxers down off his hips. Tinsley took hold of the other man's waist, hearing the shuddered sigh as Ricky lowered himself onto him. Tinsley bit back his own, relaxing back against the couch, his hands perfectly content to rest on Ricky's rocking hips.

"I'd really like this to become a regular thing," sighed Ricky, drawing the man's head into shoulder, feeling the light kiss being pressed to his skin. "Are you sure you don't?"

Tinsley nodded, muttering his reply. "Yes. I- I'm sure."

"So what am I supposed to do when it's- it's late and I-" He paused to stifle a moan against Tinsley's neck. "-and I'm all alone and you're on my mind."

"Sort yourself out."

"You're cruel."

"Am I?" Tinsley began pushing up into him, hands gripping his hips, pulling him down with each movement, forcefully slow. He heard the whimpered moans in his ear, each one delicious. "Yeah? You like that?"

Ricky hooked his arm around the man's neck, biting into his hand in an attempt to stay quiet. He whined his response. "Yeah, yeah, I- I like it."

Tinsley slipped his hand down into the man's underwear, still pushing up into him as he stroked him, still slow, cruelly slow. He could feel Ricky writhing against him, stuck to him like plaster, panted breaths hot against his neck. He turned, pinning Ricky under him on the couch, hearing the shaky moans as he started driving into him harder, feeling Ricky's hands slide under his open shirt, fingers curling over his shoulders. Ricky let out a blissful sigh, his head pushing back into the couch, letting Tinsley have him entirely, whatever way he wanted, as many times as he wanted, well into the night, and further.

It was morning by the time they wound down. Tinsley emerged from under the covers, rolling onto his back beside the other man, taking a deep breath in order to let out a deep sigh. He fetched his box of cigarettes from beside the bed, putting one in his mouth and lighting it. He snapped the lighter shut as he looked down at Ricky. The man was still lying down, his face flushed, dark hair sticking to his sweaty skin, but he looked satisfied. Smug, but satisfied.

"I don't know what the hell you do, Tinsley," he breathed, letting his head rest aside. "But your mouth works goddamn magic."

"Does it."

"Mm." Ricky finally opened his eyes, looking up at him. "Where the hell have you been all my life."

Tinsley shrugged. "Busy."

Ricky smiled wryly. Then he pushed himself up, sitting across the man's hips. Tinsley took the cigarette from his mouth before saying: "You can't be serious."

"I've pushed you past your limit, have I?"

"I'm tired," said Tinsley flatly. "And you have to go before people wake up and see you."

Ricky smiled, resting his body forwards against the detective's. "Maybe I'll leave tomorrow morning."

"You'll leave now."

"Ugh, I love when you try to be in charge. Really gets me going."

Tinsley pushed him off to the side, hearing the low laugh. "I think I've had enough. I don't want my dick broken."

There was a silence. "What did you just say."

Tinsley looked down at the dark tone, seeing Ricky's eyes narrowed up at him. "I'd heard a rumour about you and a certain waiter. Maybe I-"

"Who told you this rumour," demanded Ricky, sitting more upright, his gaze still intense. 

Tinsley frowned slightly, looking the man's face over. "I can't remember."

Ricky didn't move for a minute. Then he reached down to the end of the bed, taking one of Tinsley's shirts, seeing as he'd rushed down in his pajamas. "Right."

"Why?" Tinsley watched him curiously as he started getting dressed, suddenly very on edge. "You're not embarrassed, are you?"

"I'm not embarrassed." Ricky snarled the words, turning on him. "Shut up."

Tinsley stared at him, unblinking. "Okay."

Ricky moved to the mirror above the small desk, staring at himself for a long moment. He ran the back of his hand along his jaw. The stubble scratched him. "And what else did you hear about it."

"Nothing," said Tinsley quietly.

"Nothing." Ricky turned his head away, bouncing his fist off the desk. "It- It didn't happen during sex."

"...Oh."

"We'd hooked up a few times. Just for fun. I don't know." His clenched fist kept bouncing, steady. "But one night I was drunk. Really, stupidly fucking drunk. And he decided that I wanted it. And I said I didn't want it. And he said he was _very_ sure I wanted it, and so he tried to give me it." He suddenly punched the desk hard, the contents rattling as he turned to glare at Tinsley. "So I showed him just how much I didn't fucking want it. And I made sure he'd never want to give it to someone who didn't want it ever again." He crossed to the end of the bed, his jaw clenched. "I damn near killed the guy. But I didn't see it through, because I was younger. Stupider. He knows that. He knows he's lucky I didn't slice his throat right then and there."

Tinsley stared at him, half in fear, but half in awe. "But on the _Monty_ that night, he was-"

"All over me. I know. Because he does what I say." Ricky buttoned his shirt as he spoke. "Because he knows I'm just waiting, waiting for him to give me the excuse I've been dying for since that night."

"To kill him," said Tinsley, quietly. 

"To kill him," said Ricky, not quietly. "And I will. Someday. When I've decided exactly how."

Tinsley stayed where he was as he watched him storm towards the door. "Ricky." The man paused in the doorway. "I- I'm sorry."

Ricky's fingers tapped the door frame. He spoke over his shoulder before leaving. "Not as much as he was. And definitely not as much as he will be."

He left the apartment swiftly, getting into his car. He sat for a while, watching the sun rising above the bay. The _Monty_ sat on the still water. He lit a cigarette, not taking his eyes from the ship. His mind raced. Then he started the car and went home.


	18. Mausoleum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter is pretty rough
> 
> thank u for all ur comments on the previous chapter, but I didn't reply to them (and frequently don't) just in case I spoil things!! because I have some major plans for this fic hehehe
> 
> but I appreciate them all the same <3
> 
> and the title is reference to a song by Rafferty, which was the entire inspo for the opening scene in this. God, that song is just such a fuckin journey. That twist when he says "we missed each other by a century" always just MMM gets me

The smell of earth was damp in the air. It was too cold for dust to float. In front of him was an open tomb, the stone slab tipped off to crack in half on the floor. Ricky stared into the darkness for a long while, his breath fogging the air in front of him. From the tomb came a returning breath. Ricky went still.

"No one comes to visit," muttered a voice.

Ricky stepped back as a figure rose up out of the tomb with slow movements. The shadows dripped away like tar. The man climbed out and dusted himself off. There was quite a lot of dust, after all. Ricky stared at him, and his own eyes stared back, just like they always had from the frame above the fireplace.

"You're my grandson, are you?" The man straightened out his waistcoat. The chest had five bloody holes in it. "Stop looking so gormless, _idiota_. Yes or no."

"I'm not an idiot," replied Ricky fiercely. "And yes. I am."

"Hm. You look like him." His grandfather tutted, brushing at his formidable moustache as he stepped around Ricky. The man was taller, reaching six foot. Ricky pouted. "You look like your father."

"I wouldn't know. I've never seen him." Ricky eyed the grave slab. _Alejandro Goldsworth_.

"Good. I'm assuming he's no longer in the picture then." His grandfather walked stiffly, stretching after a long sleep. "I debated killing him a lot, you know. Much cleaner than trying to talk it out."

Ricky smiled a tad. "Yeah."

"But my accursed wife was very persuasive when she wanted to be," he muttered, dusting off another slab. They lined the mausoleum walls as far as the eye could see. "Such is our flaw as a family."

Ricky followed him further down along the tombs. They grew dirtier and more cracked with each step. "What flaw?"

"Taking all we can while giving all we have." The man continued along, walking tall. He looked about fifty. The blood still dripped from his chest. "Romantics in the most terrible ways. I was a fool for my wife. I allowed her to convince me to kill the Montepulciano family. All of them." He tilted his head aside, his salt-and-pepper hair following suit. "Although I had considered it myself for a while. But I did what she wished me to do, and I was murdered for it."

"Always fools for the ones we love," came an old woman's voice. Her black-haired head appeared around another slab. Her throat was cut to the bone. "The love of a Goldsworth is a death sentence."

"Kill your lover before they kill you," said another, wispier voice. The accent was growing stronger the further along the tombs he went. "That should've been our motto, eh?"

Ricky came to a halt as he saw more figures emerging from the dark. They wore clothing ranging across centuries, but they all had the eyes. The hard eyes, unforgiving even in death. He bit his lip hard, wondering what to say, what to do. The pressure was lifted off him as a distant piano melody reached him. It was coming from the very marrow of the earth. Ricky stood back as two figures swept past in a lilting spin. He mumbled the word.

"Mamá?"

She didn't hear him. She was younger, there were no lines around her eyes. She danced with a man who had a face made of smoke. Ricky went to follow, being stopped as his grandfather blocked his path, a woman in his arms, and her hair was gold and she had Lucy's eyes. Or Lucy had her eyes, more accurately. They danced through the tombs, and more joined them, each Goldsworth joined by their downfall, and Ricky had never felt so terribly alone. Dresses were silk and the most furious of blacks, and suits were cut so sharp it was dangerous. He looked for his mother, watching her doing a slow twirl under her husband's hand. He felt a hand take his, and he was drawn into the centre of the graves. Ricky stared up at him, breathless.

"Tinsley?"

The detective smiled softly, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. He didn't speak.

Ricky let himself be led through the other dancers, the earth spongey underfoot. He rested his head against Tinsley's chest, feeling the man's hand firm against his lower back. His other hand was still in Tinsley's, safe and warm. The detective kept him close, their noses brushing as Ricky tilted his head back, their breaths mingling. He closed his eyes as he felt Tinsley's hand cup his face, his thumb brushing across his lips in the same manner that made Ricky melt every time. He felt drunk, heady, his breaths shallow. He looked up at Tinsley with large eyes.

"Why are you here?" whispered Ricky, bringing them to a halt beside an open tomb.

Tinsley smiled, and his words were quiet. "Because I love you."

Ricky blinked a few times, unsure of how to react. "I- I don't-"

"You don't what?" Tinsley grip was suddenly too tight, uncomfortably so. "You don't love me?"

"I don't know. I- Let go." He struggled in the other man's hands, shoving at him. "Get off me. Get your hands off me!"

Tinsley kept a hold of his wrist, his eyes flashing dangerously. He simply pulled him sideways with such force Ricky toppled into the tomb with a yell. He fell and fell and fell, and he could feel the ground coming, the earth, the end. He was going to hit it at any second. He was going to hit it now.

Ricky jumped awake, shoving himself off the bed and to his feet in seconds. The room was dark. Nothing moved. He let out a quiet breath, a hand resting on his chest. His heart was skipping beats at a time.

"Ricky? You alright?"

He turned at the voice, seeing the figure lying in his bed. It was Tinsley, but his face was indistinguishable in the shadows. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"Come back to me, love."

Ricky did so, crawling into the bed, and Tinsley's face didn't grow any clearer. It stayed doused in shadow. He pulled Ricky into a hard kiss, rolling them, pinning Ricky under him. Ricky didn't resist. He let the man work him up, tease him out, eliciting breathless moans from him with expertise by now. Tinsley had him edging in minutes, pushing kisses against his neck, his chest, driving him insane. Ricky wrapped his arms around him, legs around his waist, his head pushing back into the pillow, mouth open to let out broken moans.

"Ah- Ah, fuck, I'm- Ah- Ah, _ah_ , Tinsley please, _please_ just let me-"

He woke suddenly. For a few long seconds he was bewildered. He propped himself up on his elbows, looking at the morning light spilling through the curtains. A maid knocked lightly before poking her head in.

"Coffee, sir?"

He stared at her for a long moment, mouth open. Then he said yes. He sat up in the bed, looking at the empty space beside him. He ran the back of his fingers along his jaw, biting his lip. Then he drank his coffee and fled the room as quickly as he could. 

* * *

A few days had passed. Tinsley had avoided Ricky like the plague, but oddly enough, Ricky didn't seem to be looking for him. He was okay with this, apart from the odd night where he'd wake up from a nightmare and debate calling the very man who'd starred in it. But after a few cigarettes and a quick pace around the apartment, he'd convince himself not to. So he'd get back into bed and slip back into a nightmare where Ricky was all over him like a curse and the man could break Tinsley's willpower like a twig. The nights were bad. But the days were manageable.

He went through the doors to the station, taking his hat off as he went from the sun into the shade. He passed a few of the resident cops. They nodded at him respectfully. He nodded back.

" _Psst_. Tinsley." Banjo beckoned him to his office door, his moustache twitching nervously. "You have a visitor."

"Ah. Do I."

"I saw him go past ten minutes ago," whispered Banjo, his round face hovering in the crack between the wall and the door. "I told him you weren't there, but he said it didn't matter whether you were there or not."

"Right." Tinsley shrugged his coat off, folding it over his arm, his gaze lowered. "Right. Thanks for the warning."

He didn't procrastinate. He went straight down to his office. Ricky sat at his desk, scribbling away on an open file. He was close to it, tongue visible between his teeth as he concentrated. Tinsley dumped his coat on the chair beside him.

"Not here, Ricky. This is my sanctuary as far as you're concerned, alright?"

Ricky rested back in his chair. He closed the file over and chucked it across the desk at him. The paper landed with a light slap. "What the fuck is this?"

Tinsley stared at the file. He picked it up and opened it, mentally cursing himself for not hiding it better. He saw what Ricky had been scribbling; little love hearts around the typed RICKY GOLDSWORTH on the top of the page. "It's a file I started on you. And I have one for each of you, by the way. In case you start thinking you're special."

Ricky rested the pen against his lips, an eyebrow raised. "Why do you need files?"

"So I have hard evidence of the truth." Tinsley dropped the file back onto the desk, putting his hands on his hips. "Anything else?" 

Ricky chewed on the pen for a moment, his eyes not leaving the detective's as he started playing with it, running it along his lip. Then he pushed himself to his feet, leaning on the desk, slowly running his tongue up along the pen as he did so, watching Tinsley draw a deep breath at the sight. Ricky smiled, satisfied that the other man was still enraptured. He crossed to the small wire basket, dropping the pen into it before speaking.

"Get rid of them."

Tinsley finally exhaled, a sharp sound. "No."

"Ah-ah." Ricky wagged a finger, playful. "Wasn't a question."

"I don't take orders from you." He watched Ricky light a cigarette, wave the match out nonchalantly. "Now go."

"Not yet." Ricky pulled open the drawer that Tinsley had hidden the files in; he'd left it locked, but he supposed he was a fool for thinking that would stop Ricky. "I don't appreciate these."

"You can't just come into my office and break into my desk, Ricky."

"But I did."

"You have no right," snarled Tinsley. 

"I have every right," snarled Ricky back at him.

He dropped the few files into the waste basket, taking a small rectangular cannister from his pocket and pouring the clear contents on top of the files. Tinsley stared with wide eyes as the papers went translucent. His eyes widened even more as Ricky took the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it into the basket. The flames leapt into the air instantly, making Ricky take a step back with a whistle through his teeth.

"Well, look at that. Boat oil does the trick, doesn't it?"

Tinsley stood propped on his desk, hands pressed to it. He watched the flames swiftly chewing up the files. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat. "So this is how it's going to be, hm?"

"Whatever do you mean?" replied Ricky with a flutter of his eyes. He stopped beside him, smiling slyly. "This is how it's always been, right from the start. You didn't think we were _friends_ now, did you?"

Tinsley fixed him with a sidelong glare. Then he took him by the throat, pulling him forwards against him with a single move. Ricky smiled a tad breathlessly, tilting his head back, his heavy gaze fixed on the taller man's mouth.

Tinsley growled at him. "Get out."

"Mm, I love when you use that voice." Ricky raised his chin as he felt the hand around his neck tighten ever so slightly. "C'mon. Don't be gentle with me, baby."

He went quiet as the grip was too tight all of a sudden. His smile faltered, his own hands tightening on Tinsley's wrist. He didn't look away from the detective's unblinking eyes, refusing to struggle, to show that he was beginning to panic just a little bit. He gave Tinsley's wrist a slight tug. It didn't budge.

"Let- Let go," he muttered, feeling the desk dig into him as Tinsley shoved him back against it. He pulled at the man's wrist again, teeth gritted. Each breath was a battle to get in and out. "Let go of me. Let go of me, now."

Tinsley's voice was low. "You don't like that, baby?"

Ricky swallowed at the harsh edge to the last word. He pulled at Tinsley's wrist again. "I- I can't breathe. Tinsley, I can't- I-"

"When I let go, you're going to leave," said Tinsley coldly. "And if I ever come in here and find you going through my stuff again, I'll finish the damn job. Clear?"

Ricky's hand landed on the desk behind him for balance, his other hand still hanging onto Tinsley's wrist. "Let- Let g-"

"Clear?"

"Clear," said Ricky, forcing the word out the side of his mouth.

Tinsley let him go, sitting down at the desk. Ricky didn't move for a moment, back to Tinsley as he panted for breath, a hand resting against his throat. His other hand held onto the edge of the desk. Tinsley lit a cigarette, snapping the lighter shut and chucking it onto the desk. He spoke on the exhale.

"Don't ever call me 'baby' again."

Ricky didn't turn around. He didn't move at all. Then he pushed away from the desk and crossed the room and slammed the door so hard behind him it was a wonder the glass didn't shatter in its frame. Tinsley crossed his legs, watching the door with quiet eyes. He checked his watch; midday. That's alright. He took the bottle of scotch from his desk and poured himself a glass. Then he took out a bunch of papers and dipped a pen in ink and started the files all over again. He didn't really mind. They had needed to be updated again anyway. And then he had something bigger to do, which he supposed he should just get out of the way already.  

* * *

The Mayor answered the door for him. He was as cool as the very first time he'd done so. "Detective. Are you expected?"

"Hopefully not. That's a bit of a trademark of mine." He raised his eyebrows. "Is Lucy in?"

The Mayor nodded, stepping aside. Tinsley went in past him, letting the Mayor take his coat and hat, the man disappearing into the halls. He loosened his tie, standing in front of the fire, a tall black silhouette. He stared up at Grandfather Goldsworth, and the man stared back with just as much fury as always, captured forever in dark oils. Tinsley's gaze lifted aside as Ricky wandered onto the landing, an open book in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He slowed at the sight of Tinsley. The book snapped shut in his hand.

"You better hope you're not here for me," he said from the top of the stairs. "I should break your neck for what you did earlier." 

Tinsley rolled his eyes. "Not a fan of your own medicine, no?"

"Oh, so you think you could give me a taste of my own medicine." Ricky wandered down the stairs as he spoke, the hand with the cigarette gliding down the banister. "You wouldn't have the guts."

"Don't be so sure."

Ricky grinned around his cigarette, crossing the carpet towards him. "So naive. I'm surprised."

"Naive."

"Terribly so. Dangerously so." Ricky tapped him lightly on the chest with a knuckle, thoughtfully, gaze lowered. "Why are you here."

"To talk to your mother."

"She's tired."

"It's important."

"She's tired," repeated Ricky, suddenly quite icy indeed. "You stay the hell away from her."

Tinsley searched his face closely. "You really do love your mom, Ricky. It's your one redeeming quality. That and your jawline."

Ricky didn't look too amused. He flicked his cigarette into the fire beside them. "Go home."

"I told you already, I don't take orders from you." Tinsley tilted his chin up as the other man glared at him. "You're not used to that."

"No. And I won't be getting used to it."

"I decide that."

"You don't decide shit," spat Ricky, jabbing a hard finger into the man's chest. He wrapped Tinsley's tie around his hand and yanked him down so that their noses were almost touching. "Alright, big guy?"

Tinsley didn't look away from those hateful eyes. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly. "I'm here to talk to your mother. Not fistfight you in the hall of your own home."

"No?" Ricky grinned, a mean one. "Save that for the parlour, hm?"

"Try and be civilised for once, you little demon."

"Detective." The Mayor stood in the doorway to the hall beside them. "Ms Goldsworth is ready to see you."

Ricky let the tie slide out of his hand, waving Tinsley off. The detective left, throwing a moody scowl over his shoulder as he stalked down the hall. His shoulders were squared, fists clenched by his sides. Ricky watched him go, pensive.

"He has a bit of a temper, doesn't he?"

The Mayor nodded. He'd known it from the start, after all. "Perhaps you have a rival in your midst, sir."

Ricky raised his eyebrows at him in vague surprise. "Sometimes you come out with a joke and it really does catch me off guard." He checked his watch. "Feel like a break?"

"Almost always, sir."

They went down to the kitchens in comfortable silence. The Mayor had always been an avuncular figure in Ricky's life, a calming force in the ever broiling household. Those pale eyes had witnessed horrors beyond imagination, yet still he stood by the family, year-in, year-out. Ricky let him pour the two glasses of red wine, sitting at the small table in the staff kitchens. The side door was open to let in a warm breeze. Ricky lit a cigarette.

"Do you smoke?"

"No, sir."

"I always forget. You're like Holly."

"They don't appeal to me."

"Well I suppose they're not appealing." Ricky crossed his legs, sitting at an angle. He watched the smoke curl into the night air. "I had a dream last night. Really, uh, peculiar."

"What was it about?"

" _Alejandro_ ," said Ricky in an emphasized accent, gesturing with a bit of a flourish. "My grandfather. You knew him."

The Mayor answered after a pause. "I did." 

"He wasn't loved."

"Quite the opposite."

Ricky chewed on his lip, his gaze lowered to watch the cigarette smoulder in his hands. "I know about him. About what he did. My mom told me." He sighed heavily, thinking of the smoky-faced figure his mother danced with in his dream. "She's never told me about my father. Not once. And I don't want to ask her now. I don't want to upset her."

The Mayor lifted his head slightly. "That's kind of you, sir."

"Do you know where he is?" asked Ricky, finally looking at him. He looked nervous. "Why he's gone?"

The Mayor looked aside. He got to his feet and fetched the bottle of wine. He topped his own glass up considerably. He offered some to Ricky, but the man shook his head. The Mayor left the bottle on the table beside them. He had a feeling Ricky would be changing his mind about the drink soon.

* * *

Tinsley sat in front of her desk. The curtains weren't drawn behind her. The town twinkled below. Lucy sat with her head propped up on her hand. She was tired, truly tired. He rolled a cigarette around in his fingers. Maybe he should've listened to Ricky.

"Well, detective?" she said, voice croaky. "What do you want this time?"

He took a deep breath. "I'm done here. In this town. I know Holly killed the Waitress, and I know she probably killed the chauffeur too. She has enough motives for it to be damning."

Lucy sat back, her fingers linked. "Motives?"

"The Waitress called me here because the chauffeur was killed by your family. It took me a long time to get that. She didn't use her fake accent on the phone. She was a Montepulciano. She was from here." He waited for Lucy to say something. She didn't. "I know Holly still has the gun she used to kill her. And the Mayor was an accomplice. And she killed the chauffeur once she found out he would be a threat to Ricky's inheritance. It was all for your family. It was all _by_ your family."

Lucy pursed her lips. She picked up the iced water on her desk and took a sip. "And are you surprised that Ricky is actually innocent?"

"Innocent." Tinsley arched an eyebrow at the word. "All of you have committed a litany of additional crimes. Blackmail, intimidation, attempted murder, assault, gambling, purchasing and dealing drugs. This whole town is a sinkhole of corruption."

"And what?" She let her head tilt aside. "You're going to arrest us all yourself, are you?"

"No. No, I won't." He wet his lips before continuing. "I'll leave everyone untouched, everyone, if you give me Holly."

Lucy's face hardened. "Never."

"But she-"

" _Never_." Lucy put down her glass, the water sloshing out the top. "I will never betray her."

Tinsley set his jaw, sitting back. "And I suppose the Mayor is off the table too?"

"Are you stupid?" The words were harsh. "What kind of man are you? You think I'll just sell out my dearest friends like that?"

"And your son. I guess you won't let me take him either."

"I'd let you try," she smiled wryly. "Just to entertain myself."

He stared at her, unwavering. "Why can't you see that all your dearest friends are evil people."

"They're not. They're the bravest people I know. I trust them with my life. I'm entrusting them with my son."

"The same thing, to you."

"One and the same." She went quiet, tapping a ringed finger against her glass. "Maybe if you knew, you'd understand."

"If I knew what."

She cleared her throat, a rough sound. She sipped her water. “I’m going to tell you,” she said, after taking a breath. “About his father.”

Tinsley straightened up. The whole time he’d wanted to know, was so desperately nosy he thought he was going insane. “Okay.”

“Very few others know.”

“The Mayor.”

“The Mayor,” she whispered, her gaze distant. “And Holly.”

* * *

“She did love your father, sir,” he said, gloved hands resting on his knee. “But sometimes that’s not enough.”

Ricky took another heavy mouthful of his drink. He poured another himself, not wanting to interrupt the man across from him for any reason. He felt sick with nerves.

“And I do believe he loved her,” said the Mayor quietly. “But he was a bad man, Ricky, and bad people don’t know how to love. They can’t possibly.”

Ricky pressed his lips together in a wobbled line. “What was his name?”

The Mayor said the name softly. “His name was George. George Hayakawa.”

Ricky nodded. The name was just a normal name, in the end. George. "How did they meet?"

"I believe it was on the _Monty_ , sir. Your father was passing through the town. He arrived quite unexpectedly."

Ricky swallowed, thinking of his own unexpected arrival. "And were they happy?"

The Mayor turned his glass on the table, watching the ring of liquid it left. "For a time."

* * *

“What did he do?” asked Tinsley, topping up his drink. He didn’t like the nervous look on Lucy’s face. She was terrified. Terrified of speaking a truth that had never died, no matter how hard she tried to kill it. “Where is he now?”

“He helped me,” she said. “And he was lovely, he was. But then my brother died of- of cancer. And I had to promise my father I’d take his place when the time came.” She swallowed, emptying her glass. She passed it to Tinsley, not for water. “George didn’t appreciate that. We had plans, you see. We’d travel the world, and come back when we were old and happy. But with my brother’s passing-” She clicked her fingers, her other hand accepting the glass of scotch. “-out the window. I had to stay. And then I fell pregnant, which also wasn’t planned.” She went quiet, her eyes growing glassy with tears. “For a long while, Ricky was the only thing that brought me happiness. I could look down, and know that I had something worth going on for. A son, a daughter, I didn’t care. I had someone who was all mine, who would be just mine.” She whispered the last words. “He could never have him. I would never let him.”

* * *

“She would sit for hours by the fire,” said the Mayor, pulling off his gloves a finger at a time. “And she would read to you, Ricky. In the parlour. She'd sit on the couch and hold her belly and just read her favourite stories. She lived for you, you know. You were her everything for those last months.”

Ricky picked at a scab on his hand, his eyes round. “Last months?”

The Mayor closed his cool eyes before speaking. “I didn’t notice at first. I was a fool. It was Fear who made me think something was off. He said that he’d seen them in their car, shouting at each other. He said that he saw him- he saw him strike her. Your mother.” He took a deep breath, letting it out shakily. “Then I began to notice bruises, and cuts, and marks. He was good at hiding it, your father. He was a clever, clever man. There’s nothing more dangerous in this world than a clever but selfish man. But she refused to do anything. She wanted you to have a father.”

* * *

“I thought perhaps when I had the baby, he’d change,” she said. “That he’d go back to himself. But I was a fool. His problem was with me, and the fact that I was smarter, and richer, and more powerful. He couldn’t handle it.”

Tinsley watched her lined face in silence. His own drink was untouched. “I’m sorry.”

She rocked slightly in her chair, holding her glass tight in one hand. She was trying to organize a cigarillo in the other, but her fingers were trembling too much. Tinsley did it for her. She took a pull before continuing.

“I was in here,” she said, tapping the desk. “I was heavily pregnant, maybe eight months. We had an argument. He was having affairs, I knew he was. He didn’t like the fact that I knew. He hit me, but this time he didn’t stop hitting me.” She looked at nothing in particular with wide eyes. “I thought I was going to die. I thought he was going to kill me. Maybe he would have.”

* * *

“She had never screamed before,” said the Mayor, watching Ricky’s face for any signs of emotional overload. He was shaking slightly, but he seemed determined to hear it through. “I was in the dining room when I heard her. I was polishing the mirror, and Holly was behind me at the table. Doing accounts. We could hear them, but we could always hear them. Lucy had ordered us to never interrupt, to never- to never do anything." He shook his head slowly. "Doing nothing is the hardest thing on this planet to do sometimes, Ricky. To just do nothing." He rubbed at his nose. "It tore Holly apart each time. She was here to protect your mother, and the fact that she couldn't was terribly, terribly hard on her. Until that night. I’ll never forget the sound, the word she screamed; help. It chilled me to my very core. And I looked at Holly, and Holly looked at me, and she'd snapped her pen nib against the accounts book. And we ran, Ricky. We ran as fast as we could possibly run. We went all the way to her office, and I thought that this time was the last time. I thought we’d find her dead. But we didn’t.”

Ricky swallowed hard, struggling with the lump in his throat. “And?”

“She was on her knees in front of the desk, and she was covered in blood.” He gestured down at himself, shaking his head. “All down her front. She was holding her belly, she was holding you. I thought perhaps she’d miscarried. And your- your father had her by the hair, but he was bloody too. And he told me to stay where I was, to do as I was told. And he told Holly to leave. More harshly than that, but he told her to leave nonetheless."

Ricky searched his face. "Did she."

"No. No, she didn't." He took a breath. "I was slower. I was unsure of myself, what my role was. Holly wasn't. She went at him like a demon. She clawed at him and she bit him and she struck him and she hung around his neck even as he hit her back. He managed to get her off, I remember her crying out when she hit the desk. That's when I acted."

* * *

"I was under the desk by then," said Lucy, her words hoarse. "I was getting my rifle. I felt the pains, but I was too terrified to truly notice. When I came back out, the Mayor was fighting George but he wasn't winning. He was old then too, and George wasn't. George saw me and he tried to get at me again. I remember seeing Holly latch around his legs, and she was screaming for help. He was going to kill me. He wanted to. And maybe another time I would've let him." Her voice grew fierce again. "But _not_ when I had my baby inside me. My son. And I lifted the rifle and I shot him. Just once."

Tinsley watched her face. The air in the room suddenly seemed colder, darker, weighed down with the memories. "You killed him."

“No. No, he was still alive, you see,” she mumbled, taking another mouthful of her drink. “I hadn’t fatally shot him. And that was when I felt them again. The pains. The contractions."

* * *

_"No," whispered Lucy, clutching at her belly where she knelt on the floor. Her hands were streaked with blood. "No, not now. Not- Not now."_

_She saw Holly move, crawling towards her, her chin covered in the blood still running from her nose. "What is it? Lucy, what-"_

_"It's coming. It's- It's-" She let out a sudden groan, and she froze. Her voice was tight with fear. "My water just broke. Holly, my water just broke!"_

_The Mayor lifted his head at the words, his own face bloodied. He pushed himself to his hands and knees, staring at George a few feet away. The man was on his side, clutching his stomach, the blood welling through his fingers like oil. The Mayor closed his eyes with a tired breath._

_"Come. Come on." Holly took Lucy's hands, helping her to her feet, her face pale, deathly so. "I'll- I'll drive you to-"_

_"No, no, I- Aaah." She managed a few steps, the tears falling from her eyes. She panted the words. "I won't make it. I- It's coming, it's coming now, Holly I'm not ready, it's too early, I can't-"_

_Holly heard the angry groan, looking over her shoulder, seeing George back on his feet, coming towards them like a drunk. She grabbed Lucy and began to run, her heart hammering in her chest. Lucy stumbled every second step, crying from the pain, from the fear. Holly felt George's hands on her. She screamed, shoving him away, shoving him off Lucy, tripping over Lucy as the woman fell against the banister on the landing. Lucy screamed out for help, she couldn't move, she couldn't walk another step. She rolled onto her back, and over her was George's bloodied face, his eyes so wide the whites were showing. For a moment, time stopped. Then she heard the Mayor's shout, a fury in his voice she'd never heard before and hadn't heard since._

_"NO!"_

_The Mayor fell against him, dragging the man to the floor, fighting to get him back, to get him away. He took George by the back of his shirt, pulling him struggling into the adjoining room, as far from Lucy as he could manage. Holly lifted her head, staring at him. The Mayor stared back. George was mumbling nonsense, dragging himself across the floor towards Lucy. He left a wide streak of blood behind him on the carpet. He still looked crazed, feral, frothing at the mouth. Holly looked at the Mayor. The Mayor looked back. Then he stepped around George and closed the doors, leaving Holly and Lucy safe. He didn't join them._

* * *

"I gave birth to Ricky that night. Right on the landing." She bit her lip at the memory, and the mixture of sadness and happiness filled the air like petrichor. "A few weeks early, but he was healthy. He was a darling. And despite everything I smiled. Holly ran me a bath and I sat in it with him and I never wanted to leave. Never."

Tinsley swallowed, wondering if he should dare to ask. "And what about George?"

Lucy's small smile slackened slightly. "The Mayor came in. He took my clothes, he took my jewelry, he took anything with blood on it. All in silence. He didn’t speak a word the entire time. Then he left. I- I never saw George again. But there was a fire that night, out the back gardens. He was throwing things onto it; my clothes, Holly's clothes, all of George's things. He burned anything with evidence on it.” She swallowed. "And probably George too."

Tinsley went still. “He killed George.”

“He saved my life,” she said, wiping at her eyes with a finger. “Holly and the Mayor saved me. But yes. I- I believe he killed George.”

Tinsley sat back. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I- Who knows?”

“The Mayor, and Holly. And Doctor Fear knows about me and George's... troubles."

Tinsley nodded, hands clamped between his legs. "I'm sorry. That- That must've been awful."

"I've never told Ricky. Never. How could I?" She shook her head, taking a long drag on her cigarillo. "How can I explain to him that I gave birth to him as his father was murdered in the next room? It's impossible. I can't."

"That's... That's fair. But I- I think you should." Tinsley went quiet. He was too shocked to speak. “So Ricky is really Ricky Hayakawa.”

“No!” She almost shouted the word, knocking her glass asunder. “He’s a Goldsworth! He’s mine, he’s not his! I don’t care what they say. Ricky is my son. My only son. My little boy.” She pressed a hand to her mouth, the tears squeezing out from the corners of her eyes. “He was so sweet. From the minute he was born he was the sweetest little thing. And he was mine. He had my father’s eyes right from the start. He’s everything to me. You never love anything the way you love your first child.”

“I know.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.” He cleared his throat, a rough sound. “A- A girl. I had a little girl.”

Lucy stared at him. She was genuinely stunned. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” His voice was thick. He put down his glass and got to his feet. “Thank you, Lucy. For telling me.”

She got to her feet stiffly, wearily. She extended a hand. He shook it, but she didn't shake his. She squeezed it hard, as hard as she could bear. Then she said: "I'm sorry, detective."

He nodded, eyes fluttering. He swiftly left the room, feeling the tears hot in his eyes. His throat worked. He strode down the dark hall, sniffing, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes. He almost walked right into him. Ricky stared up at him, lashes thick with tears, his cheeks stained. Neither of them spoke. They simply looked at each other.

Tinsley cleared his tight throat. “Goodnight, Ricky. And- And I’m sorry.”

Ricky nodded at the choked-up sincerity of the words, letting the taller man step around him and vanish around the corner. He went up to his mother’s office door, cracking it open. He stepped in, closing the door behind him. Lucy stood up, walked over, and hugged him hard. Ricky hugged her back, letting himself go, letting the tears spill freely.

“You’re my son,” she whispered, drawing his head down into her shoulder. “ _Mi tesoro_. And I’m so, so proud of you. Don’t ever forget that.”

He nodded, the tears burning down his cheeks. “I love you,  _mamá_.”

“I love you too.” She ran her hand through his dark hair, wishing that he was still young enough, small enough to just bundle into a blanket in her arms. “I love you so much.”

They sat for a long while in the parlour, in front of the fire, and she explained everything she could. And she held him as close as she could, and he stained her blouse with tears. Then he sat back, and he swallowed hard. He was exhausted. Worn out. He told her he was going to get some water. She said she was going to bed. She hugged him tightly, and gave him a kiss on the cheek, and urged him to never forget how much she loved him. He promised he'd never forget. Then he went down to the kitchens, but he didn't quite make it.

Tinsley's car was still out in the driveway. The headlights weren't on, but he could see the man in it. Tinsley was folded against the steering wheel, his hands linked behind his head. His shoulders shook with each sob. He turned his head aside as he heard the passenger door open, and close soon after. He wiped at his eyes, at his nose, futile. Ricky stared straight ahead, at the dark gravel drive that led around to the gates.

"I'm assuming she told you about my dad."

Tinsley sniffed, his voice thick with tears. "Yeah. Yeah, she told me."

Ricky didn't blink as he stared ahead. "I'm glad he's dead. If he hadn't been killed then I probably would've done it by now."

"I don't doubt that."

"He hit her." He began quietly, but his voice got louder, more furious, untamed. "He laid a hand on her and no one ever stopped him. Not until the end. Not until the very end when he was going to fucking kill her. No one stopped him. No one tried to fucking-" He gave up trying to voice his frustrations, instead just hitting the dashboard repeatedly with his fists.

"Stop it," said Tinsley, spying the blood appear on the man's knuckles. "Stop it. Ricky, you're hurting yourself. Ricky, would you fucking stop!"

He grabbed hold of the man's wrists, yanking his hands away, and he pulled him into a tight hug. Ricky buried his face in his shoulder, clinging onto him. He sniffed, speaking softly, tearfully.

"Can I stay with you."

Tinsley ran a hand through the man's dark hair, resting his chin on top of his head. "Of course."

They drove in silence. Tinsley let him into his apartment, into his room. He left the lights off. They got undressed in silence. Tinsley got under the covers, and lifted them to let the other man get in beside him. Ricky laid his head on his chest, hearing the detective's steady heartbeat. He felt the man's fingers start to run through his hair, soft and gentle. Ricky closed his eyes, holding him closer, breathing him in. The world outside was still. They fell asleep just like that.

* * *

"And what was his reaction?"

"He seemed- He was upset. Of course he was." Lucy accepted the glass of water with a grateful but tired smile. She set it on the bedside locker. The clock showed half six in the morning; she'd stayed up all night talking with Holly. "But he wasn't angry. I always thought he'd be angry."

"Maybe he's not as much like George as you think."

"He has something George didn't have, and that's empathy. He feels for others. I know he does." She arranged the covers around herself. "I have a favour to ask you, Holly. It's- It's definitely a big one."

Holly stood beside her bed. "Anything, Lucy. You know that."

"I received a call from the doctor yesterday." She bit on her lip, her gaze stuck to the far wall. "He said months."

"Months?" Holly took a second to realize what she was talking about. Then her face fell. "Months."

She nodded her head. Her hair was limp. She in general was limp. She couldn’t even seem to pick up her glass. “I- I’m going to get worse. Much worse. I won’t even be able to lift a fork to feed myself soon.”

Holly reached down, taking her hand. It felt as fragile as glass. “You won’t be alone. I promise.”

“I know. I-” She swallowed hard, painfully. “I don’t want to be remembered like this. I don’t want Ricky to think of me and just have memories of me looking like a shell of myself. It’s the last thing I want.”

“I know.”

“But- But the first thing I want is- is mercy. For the end.” She looked up at Holly with serious eyes, serious eyes in a thin face. “I don’t want to waste away like this.”

Holly stared at her in silence. “I- Are you-”

“I want you to promise me that you’ll keep him safe.” Lucy swallowed again. “Keep him safe for me. Don’t let him hurt himself like I did.” She held Holly’s hand as tightly as she could manage. “Promise me, Holly. I can’t bear to think of him being alone.”

“I promise,” she said quietly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I’ll keep him safe.”

Lucy lay back on her pillows. She seemed to drown in them. “The top drawer, if you would.”

Holly was frozen in place. She reached over and opened the drawer. She knew what it was the second she saw it. She took out the small clear bottle, and the single pill in it. “Lucy, I- Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes.”

“Are you certain?” Holly stared at her, silently pleading that she change her mind. “Is this what you want?”

“Your job is to protect me, Holly.” She gave a shaky nod, sniffing. “This is protecting me. Protecting me, and my memory, but most importantly my son. I can’t stand the sadness on his face. I can’t draw out this pain for him. It’s already been too much.”

Holly bit her lip once she realised it was trembling. She turned the bottle in her fingers, hearing the single pill rattle inside. She unscrewed it with shaking fingers, tipping the pill into her hand.

“Don’t let him know,” whispered Lucy, clutching onto her arm. “Don’t let anyone know.”

“No. Never.”

Lucy smiled weakly. “One final secret, hm?”

Holly smiled back just as sadly. “I’ll keep it with all the others.” She tapped her chest. “Right in here.”

Lucy nodded. That was enough confirmation for her. She picked her glass of water off the bedside table, putting her other hand out to Holly. Her friend took off her glasses to wipe at her eyes before placing the pill in Lucy’s hand, curling the woman’s fingers around it. She trusted Lucy. She always had, and there was no reason to backpedal now.

Lucy turned her head aside, gaze lowered. The birds were beginning to chirp outside. “I want you to stay. But when I- When it’s done, I want you to leave. Pretend you were never here. Can you do that?”

“If you want me to, I will.”

“Yes. Yes, I want you to.”

Holly’s eyes welled with tears, one or two escaping down her cheeks. “I’ll miss you, Lucy. By God, I’ll miss you.”

“Thank you, Holly. For everything you’ve done. All of it, right from the start.” She sniffed, her own eyes growing watery. “But most of all for this.”

Lucy sat for a moment, staring at the dark pill in her hand. She chewed on her lip, her eyes anxious. Holly swallowed through her tears.

“Are you frightened?”

“Holly, I’m damn near about to wet myself I’m that terrified.” She sighed wearily. “What comes after, hm?”

“I don’t know.”

“Me neither. I just hope my father isn’t there.” She fiddled with the pill for a bit longer. Then she put it in her mouth and took a mouthful of water and swallowed it down all so suddenly. “I’ll see you again someday, I suppose.”

Holly didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The tears choked her with barbed wire. It was over within minutes. Lucy relaxed entirely, her head falling aside. She went still as a statue. Holly wept silently, just in case she attracted unwanted attention. She clutched Lucy’s hand and leaned forwards and pressed her forehead to it and she cried. She forced herself to stand up, her hands trembling. She brushed Lucy’s hair aside and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Then she hurried out and down to her own room and she couldn’t even bear to look at Ricky’s as she passed. The poor boy. The poor, poor boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Woman's Work by Kate Bush got me through writing that last holly and Lucy scene. I just gotta credit it https://youtu.be/pSCQPSrlNbk


	19. Head of the Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last chapter!!  
> chapter 20 is a preview of part 2

“Ms Goldsworth, your tea and the morning paper.”

There was no response from the shape on the bed. She was lying still on her back, propped against the pillows, deep in slumber. The Mayor checked his watch, eyebrows raised. Unfortunately, there was no lie-on scheduled today. He set the tray down and said: “Ms Goldsworth, your tea and the morning paper. It’s seven o’clock.”

Still, no response. He didn’t move for a long moment. Should he shake her? It would be quite inappropriate to awake her in such a manner, but speaking loudly was also unheard of. He went around to the side of the bed she always slept on. He cleared his throat.

“Ms Goldsworth?” He waited. “…Lucy? Lucy. Lucy.”

He was frozen, but not as much as she was. Her hand was ice. The Mayor didn’t move for a long, long minute. The room was a painting. Not even the trees rustled out the window. He held a shaky finger below her nose; nothing. Not a hint of breath. He picked up an icy hand, feeling her wrist for a pulse.

“Heavens.” He sat down on the side of the bed, a hand across his mouth as he let the shock go through him viciously. “Oh, good heavens. Lucy.”

He took a private moment to mourn, letting the tears spill, despite the fact he was numb with shock. He was out the door within seconds, half-jogging down the corridor. The curtains were just being opened. The maids watched as the Mayor hurried past. It was the Mayor; at a half-jog, he may as well have been sprinting in their eyes. They gathered behind him like a flock of concerned magpies, watching him disappear. All heads turned to Lucy Goldsworth’s room. The silence hung heavy.

The Mayor knocked on Ricky's door, urgent. There was no reply, and today there was no time to wait. He pushed open the door. "Ricky, I- Oh." He stared at the empty bed. "Oh no." 

He stood for a moment in brewing horror. This was not planned. Ricky was meant to be here when his mother passed, be surrounded by allies. He hoped he was with Fran. He prayed he was with Fran.

"What's going on?" Fran had her head stuck out of her own room, watching the maids and footmen scurry back and forth. "What's the kerfuffle about?"

The Mayor stared at her for a long moment. "Where's Holly?"

Holly raised her head as the Mayor rushed into the room in a very unceremonious flurry. She arched a disapproving eyebrow over her paper, coffee continuing on towards her mouth. “Relax. It’s a Sunday morning.”

“Ms Horsley, my apologies,” he managed to mumble. “Is Mr Goldsworth about?”

“Is he ever on a Sunday morning?” she asked with a roll of her eyes. She sipped her coffee. The ceramic hit off the saucer as she placed it back down delicately. “I suppose you've tried his room.”

“Do you know where Mr Goldsworth is?” persisted the Mayor, his shaking hands held behind his back. “It’s urgent.”

Holly stared at him. She folded the paper back, her hand running along the edge to fix it in place. She leaned aside in her chair, seeing the staff hurrying back-and-forth through the corridor. Then she sat back, and she said: “What’s happened?”

The Mayor swallowed, pressing his lips together. The only sound was the rapid footsteps behind them, above them, oppressive. Holly raised her chin, not looking away from his wide eyes. She knew. Of course she knew. But she ignored her own knowledge in lieu of hope that maybe the former night hadn't happened at all. The cold morning light came hard through the window behind her. The Mayor let out his breath. He steadied himself.

“Ms Goldsworth just passed away.”

* * *

Ricky opened his eyes slowly. They were stiff, perhaps from the tears night before. For a second, he didn't know where he was. Then the bed shifted under him and let out a low sleepy mumble and he realized it wasn't a bed he was lying on. Ricky lifted his head, resting his chin on Tinsley's chest as he looked at him. The man was still asleep it seemed, head tilted aside, but his hand rested on the back of Ricky's neck, his thumb absent-mindedly brushing his skin every few seconds, like it had for most of the night. 

"Wake up."

Tinsley mumbled in response. Ricky pouted, trying again.

"Wake up. I want coffee."

"Do I look like a maid to you," came the sleepy grumble.

Ricky propped himself up, an elbow either side of the other man. "I'll make it."

Tinsley laughed, finally letting his eyes drift open. "I highly, highly doubt you even know how."

"I know how to make coffee, Tinsley."

"When's the last time you had to make yourself coffee."

Ricky pursed his lips, looking aside. "I- Well, I've seen the Mayor making it. It can't be _that_ hard."

Tinsley smiled, cupping the man's jaw, his soft gaze wandering over his face. "I'll make it in a few minutes. I don't want my apartment burned down."

Ricky smiled wryly. "You're _so_ funny."

"Some of us have to be." He raised an eyebrow. "You, on the other hand, can just flash a smile and get whatever you want."

Ricky rested his chin on his hand, his other hand lightly tracing along the detective's collarbone. "Were you born such a charmer, or did you have to be taught?"

"It's a method of survival," smiled Tinsley as the other man's mouth drifted closer to his. 

"I'd believe that," mumbled Ricky against his lips before kissing him softly, hearing the low sigh the other man let out.

Tinsley slipped his fingers through the man's dark hair, drawing him deeper into the kiss, their lips parting against each other. He rolled them, pinning Ricky under him, still kissing him with unreserved passion, a hand sliding down the man's waist. He moved the kisses lower, under his jaw, feeling Ricky's hand wrap around the back of his neck, holding him in place. Ricky bit his lip as he smiled to himself, pushing his head back into the pillow, baring his neck for easier access. Each kiss was heavenly. He scowled as Tinsley suddenly pulled away with an airy roll of his eyes.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I forgot you wanted coffee."

Ricky didn't open his eyes, trying to guide the man back to his neck. "Coffee can wait now."

"But you were so insistent. I just _have_ to get it."

"Don't be an ass, Tinsley. Don't- Nooo." He reached after him as the detective got off the bed, flopping back down when Tinsley left the room. "Unforgivable."

He pulled the covers back up over him, feeling oddly light. It was relief, but this was a feeling that he wasn't quite familiar with. He could hear Tinsley humming a vague tune, sounding distant. Ricky lay where he was for a few minutes. Then he reached out a hand to the bedside locker, pulling the top drawer open. He was looking for cigarettes. He found something else. He picked up the ring, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. It was gold and simple. He sat upright, frowning at it. On the inside was delicately carved lettering. _Yours, forever_. Ricky realized his teeth were gritted, the ring felt like it was burning into his palm. He tipped it back into the drawer and closed it and buried himself back under the covers. His heart was beating a bit too fast. He'd just seen something he wasn't meant to have seen. He wished he hadn't seen it. The light feeling in his chest was gone.

"Your coffee, sir," came Tinsley's dry voice, and he put the mug on the locker beside Ricky. "I hope you forgive me for the absence of any silver trays. Mine are all in the wash."

Ricky sat up, taking the mug with a small smile. His eyes were distracted. He drank his coffee as the detective got dressed. Then the phone rang.

Tinsley put the phone to his ear, saying his name as he always did, buttoning his shirt with his free hand. "Oh, hi. Uh, yeah. Sure." He passed the phone over to Ricky, ducking under the cord. "It's for you."

He got out of the bed, going to the window and pulling the curtains open. The first bell ring seemed to come in with the daylight. Tinsley frowned at the church further down the street. He could see the bell swinging back and forth in its tower, no doubt with the Minister below. Tinsley wondered what had happened this time. Another murder, perhaps. His mind grinded to a standstill as he saw the flag atop the church beginning to be lowered. When he started thinking again, it was just one word, over and over. _No. No no no no no_. 

The phone hit the bedside locker. Tinsley looked over his shoulder, eyes wide in panic. Ricky had his back to him, and he was frozen, one hand still raised as if holding the phone. He didn't move for a long moment, neither of them did. The bell knelled. People were beginning to gather on the street, their murmured voices finding their way into the room. The ships joined in, pulling their horns, long and forlorn. Tinsley opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn't. He didn't know where to begin.

Ricky scrambled into his clothes, stumbling for the door, slamming it open like a drunk. He was halfway across the sitting room when Tinsley caught up.

"Ricky, I'm so-"

"Get off me!" he shouted, shoving him away. His eyes were brimming with tears, they were going to fall at any second. "I should've been with her! I should've been with her but I was with _you!_ I should've- I should've been-"

He was already gone, running to his car. Tinsley watched him from the doorway, his own heart racing. He crossed the street towards the crowd gathering on the other side, and Ricky's car swerved past him with barely an inch to spare. Tinsley watched it go, heard the engine roaring, the car tearing down the street and around the corner. He looked back at the crowd. A few of them were staring at him. A lot of them were whispering. Tinsley ran a hand through his hair, his heart pounding in his chest. The bell was painfully loud, the ships horns were oppressive. He put his other hand through his hair, his eyes wide and unfocused.

"Tinsley!" It was Banjo, waving at him from behind the crowd. "Tinsley! Over here!"

Tinsley ran a hand down his face, trying to steady himself as he moved forwards. The gathered townsfolk parted for him. Banjo took hold of his arm with concern in his eyes.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." He sniffed, straightening up. "I'm fine."

"Good. We need you sharp." Banjo led him up the stone steps with hurried movements. "It's important. It's very important."

"Important?" Tinsley couldn't quite hear him over the bell, over the chattering crowd. "What?"

Banjo drew him inside the church doors, holding his arm as he led him up along the aisle, looking up at him with eyes that were equal part fear and equal part excitement. "Lucy is dead."

"God rest her soul," said the Minister solemnly from the altar. The candles were lit, glowing softly either side of him.

"And God curse her damned son," added Fear, tapping his cane on the floor. "Hear ye, hear ye."

"We don't want Ricky," said Banjo, his hushed voice still filling the church, only for its boldness. "We never did. But we never had a chance. Not until you."

Tinsley stared at him, snapping back to his senses quite unpleasantly indeed. "I don't understand."

"Help us." Darla took a small step forwards, her heels clicking on the marble. "Stay in the town. Help us get rid of him."

"I've spent most of my damn years on this earth in fear of that family," said Fear, pushing himself to his feet, both hands on the cane. "I'm done with it. Done."

"Help us, Tinsley." The Minister came out from around the altar, Bible in his hands. "We'll do as you say."

Tinsley stared up at him with round eyes. He couldn't say yes. He couldn't bring himself to. He dropped his gaze to Darla. Her face was pleading.

"Please, Tinsley," she whispered, his hands clasped at her waist. "I don't want to live the rest of my life like this. I don't want to be trapped here. I want to see the world. I want to see the big cities like in the movies. I want to drive a car. I want to have a job I love, I want to have a say over my own money."

"I want to see my daughter again," said Fear, his bushy brows drooping. "I haven't seen her in twenty-five years. She doesn't even know I'm still here."

"I want to feel what snow is like," said Banjo wistfully. "It looks so soft."

Tinsley swallowed, looking up at the Minister. The man just shrugged, giving his head a slow shake.

"I just want what God intended for us all," he said. "Freedom."

Tinsley looked at each of them, his breath caught in his throat. When he finally forced it out, words came out with it. "Okay. Okay, I'll- I'll stay. I'll help you."

* * *

The doors were opened for him. They swept inwards, as if they were expecting a grand patrol. It was just one man, unshaven, hair ruffled from sleep, shirt messily-buttoned and vaguely tucked in. Regardless, the staff stood in the hall, somber and respectful. Ricky stood in the cold breeze, the gray light falling on his shoulders along with everything else. He swallowed hard, listening to the low murmurs as he passed. _I'm sorry, sir. I'm sorry for your loss_. He ignored them. He was focused on staying in one piece as he went up the stairs. He was already crumbling by the time he reached the landing. He could see the three of them standing by her open door. He walked unsteadily towards them, both hands clamped over his mouth to try and keep the sobs in. He heard Holly say something, some attempt at comfort, but it sounded blurred, muffled behind glass. He stumbled through Fran's hug, pushing her arms aside as he went into his mother's room.

It was in darkness but for the soft glow of candlelight. That was better than the daylight. The unnatural paleness of her face, the stiffness of her flesh, was less obvious. The small group went through the door after him. Ricky went to the bed alone. He swallowed his tears, but his eyes were burning, his chest jumping. She was on her back, fingers interlocked over the covers. She looked peaceful. It wouldn’t be long before she looked like a wax doll. He placed a trembling hand on hers, keeping his back to the door, to any prying eyes. He hoped his shoulders weren’t shaking too much.

No one said anything. The silence lingered, grew tighter. Then he simply snapped.

Ricky fell against the bed, clutching her shoulders, shaking her, his words barely legible between sobs. "No, no, mamá, I'm not ready, I'm not- I'm not ready, I can't do this, I can't- I- I- Mamá please!" He wailed the word, giving her another desperate shake. " _PLEASE!_ "

Holly bit her lip hard, willing herself not to cry. She couldn't. She had to be the rock, the pillar, matching the Mayor beside her. Although it appeared he was struggling too. He dabbed at his eyes with his shirt sleeve. Fran twisted the heel of her shoe into the carpet, holding one wrist tight in the opposite hand as she fought to keep the tears in.

Ricky had his face buried in the covers, his hands clutching Lucy's limp one. He went still, looking over his shoulder at them with red eyes. "The- The doctor said months. Last week the doctor said months."

Holly took a deep breath. "I suppose the doctor was wrong, Ricky."

"Wrong. The doctor was wrong." Ricky turned his gaze back to Lucy, his entire body trembling with anger. He spoke the words through gritted teeth. "Bring him to me."

Holly's eyes widened in alarm. "Ricky, just-"

"BRING HIM TO ME!" he shouted, glaring over his shoulder at her, his eyes flashing with rage. "BRING HIM TO ME NOW!"

The Mayor gave Holly a wide-eyed glance. She didn't look back. She just gave the slightest of nods. The Mayor left to do as he was told, to deliver a death warrant by phone. Fran swiftly followed, knowing a bad spell when she saw one. Holly watched Ricky still kneeling by the bed, still shaking with anger. She spoke quietly.

"It's not the doctor's fault, Ricky."

"He said months," said Ricky icily, lifting his head. "I would've been here. I would've been here for her if the doctor hadn't been wrong."

"You should have been here anyway."

Ricky went still. He looked over his shoulder at her with wide eyes. "Excuse me?"

"You should've been here," she repeated just as firmly. "Instead of sneaking off with the detective for a night of temporary pleasure. And now this is the consequence."

Ricky got to his feet, letting Lucy's hand slip from his. "What did you just say?"

"I said-"

"I'm giving you a chance to pretend that you never even opened your mouth," said Ricky fiercely, closing the space between them. Holly took a cautionary step back. "I'd advise you fucking take it."

She took it. For now. She lowered her gaze as Ricky turned away. He went back to the bed, standing over it, looking down at Lucy with eyes that were swiftly growing watery again. He placed a hand against the bedpost to steady himself.

"I'm going to kill him."

"Ricky-"

"I'm going to kill him, and I'm going to kill all of them down there for not telling me sooner." He spoke with frightening sincerity. "Banjo, Fear, Fitzgerald. Tinsley. _Tinsley_." He snarled the name, his grip tightening on the bedpost. "How dare they not tell me. How dare they hide the truth from me. And how dare  _you_." He rounded on her again, a shaking finger pointed in her face. His eyes were wild, glittering with rage. "You're on thin ice. Really fucking thin. Don't you even fucking think of hiding something like this from me again."

Holly didn't look away from his eyes. "I answered to your mother at the time. Not you."

Ricky exhaled sharply, dropping his hand. "Well now you answer to me."

"I do."

He sat down on the side of the bed, suddenly going as quiet as a graveyard. His hand rested on Lucy's. His other hand reached out, brushing her cheek. His words trembled. "Get out."

Holly nodded, stepping outside. She closed the doors after her. Ricky sat where he was, his hand still clutching Lucy's icy one. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying that he'd feel her hand move in his. That he'd hear a faint breath, a cough, a sigh. Maybe feel the bed move, the covers rustle. Nothing moved, not for the entire ten minutes he sat stone still. He eventually got to his feet, falling against the bedside locker. He hadn't even noticed his knees were so weak. He scrambled the phone from its hook, raising it shaking to his ear, barely able to spin in the number he was so furious. It rang twice before being answered.

"Fitzgerald," said the voice respectfully. He must have guessed who would be ringing.

"Get up here," snarled Ricky, holding the phone with both hands in a futile attempt to keep it steady. "Get the fuck up here. You and Banjo and the old bastard across the street. And Tinsley." He paused for a few heavy breaths. "Get Tinsley. Now. Now!"

The phone was hung up as the Minister hurried to do his bidding. Ricky dropped his own one, leaning against the wall, elbows pressed to it, hands linked behind his head. He couldn't see anything, but his eyes were wide open, spilling tears again. He let them drip off his jaw, dot the collar of his shirt. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't will himself to.

"Sir, the doctor is on his way here," said the Mayor gently from the door.

Ricky let in a breath, a deep one, hands sliding down the wall, forehead pressed to it. "Good. Good." He looked over his shoulder at him, unblinking. "Good."

* * *

Tinsley stood at the door to the manor. He hadn't knocked yet. He looked over his shoulder at the three men gathered behind him like frightened children. Banjo was already wringing his hat hard enough to tear. He let out a quiet sigh, turning his gaze back to the door. He raised a hand and knocked. It was answered almost instantly. The Mayor stared at them with an unreadable expression, but his face looked tight, pale.

"Gentlemen."

Tinsley let him take his coat and hat, rolling his sleeves up as he advanced into the hall. He looked at the oil painting of the worst Goldsworth in history - so far. He followed the others, up the stairs, watching for any sign of danger. Ricky didn't show, however. They weren't brought to Lucy's room. They weren't brought to the parlour. They were brought to Lucy's office. Lucy's old office. The Mayor opened the door for them. Tinsley went through last, watching over the heads of the other men. They slowed to a halt in a line, from left to right, tallest to shortest, Fitzgerald to Fear. The terror coming off them was palpable. Banjo twisted his hat in his hands.

Tinsley stayed a bit away from them, arms folded across his chest as he watched Ricky leaning on the desk with his head hanging. "Ricky. I'm sorry."

Ricky lifted his head, and his gaze was unfocused. It drifted across Fear, across Banjo, across the Minister, each of them staying as still as they could. Ricky's eyes only sharpened when they landed on Tinsley, piercing him like a knife through a tie. The detective kept his arms folded across his chest, if only to contain his racing heart. There was something dark splattered across Ricky's face, his neck, the collar of his shirt. He smiled with all his teeth. The gesture didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I'm glad you're all here."

Tinsley tilted his chin up at the tone of the words, taking a deep breath through his nose. His fingers subtly felt under his arm, but he already knew his gun wasn't there. He heard the Minister breathing shakily beside him. Banjo looked as if he was about to cry.

"I just want to- to hit the ground running with you guys," continued Ricky in an airily light voice, straightening up off the desk. He wandered towards them, and the dark stains on his face shone wetly in the light. He went right up to Fear, looking right down into the old man's round eyes. "You won't ever lie to me, right?"

"N-No, Mr Goldsworth. No."

"And you won't ever go behind my back, will you?" he said softly, his unblinking gaze inches from Banjo's now.

"No," whispered Banjo, sick to his stomach with fear. The man smelled like blood and death, a heady perfume. "No."

"Good. That's good." Ricky carried on past the Minister, speaking as casually and as slowly as he was walking. "Because do you know what I'll do to you if you do?"

The Minister gulped, clutching his Bible. He replied, even though he already had an idea of what the answer would be. "N-No, Mr Goldsworth." 

Ricky stopped in front of the last man, his eyes burning with fresh anger. His words were low and snarled. "I'll kill you so slowly, so damn slowly, that getting to hell will be a relief to you."

Tinsley looked down his nose at him. He couldn't risk looking at him directly. He didn't reply. Ricky let the word scrape out between his gritted teeth.

"Leave."

Tinsley was the only one who didn't jump to do so, but he had a feeling the order didn't include him. Ricky's eyes were still stuck to his, and nothing else could have said _we're not finished here_ in a clearer fashion than that glare. The door shut behind the three other men and the Mayor. Tinsley took a quiet breath.

"Whose is it."

Ricky tilted his head a tad, but otherwise didn't respond.

"Whose blood is all over your fucking face," said Tinsley, harsher than before. "Whose is it."

"You can't talk to me like that, today of all days." Ricky's eyes fluttered, he breathed erratically. "Today is the day the most important thing in my life was taken away from me. The only thing I cared about. Gone." The last word sounded strangled. "She was all I had. Nothing else matters in this world."

Tinsley gritted his teeth, fighting to stay sane, to not cave and draw the other man into a tight embrace. "Whose blood is it, Ricky."

Ricky's reply was flat. "The blood of someone who hurt me."

"Hurt you?"

"Lied to me. Deceived me." He stared at his hands. He'd bothered to clean them, but he'd forgotten entirely about his face. He went back to the basin of water on the desk, taking the reddened cloth out and wiping his face. "Strange. It usually makes me feel good when I hurt someone who hurt me. Nothing makes me feel better, really."

"It didn't make you feel better."

"No."

"Did it make you feel worse?"

"It didn't make me feel anything."

The faces flipped through his mind, all the possible victims. "Where's Holly?"

"Funeral. Funeral arrangements."

"Shouldn't you be helping?"

"Helping." Ricky laughed, a bitter sound. He dropped the cloth back into the water. "She's ringing the other families. Informing them, inviting them, all the things I couldn't even bear thinking about doing."

Tinsley watched him move back towards the desk. He was moving strangely, stiff, tense all over. "Why invite the families if you don't like them."

"Tradition," spat Ricky, pouring himself a glass of scotch. He missed the glass a few times, but he didn't slow. "Oh they just love their tradition. And me?" He spread his arms with a wide smile, the drink sloshing out of his glass. "I'm just so traditional, amn't I? Gay, no father, no living family, I'm off to a great fucking start."

Tinsley raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure they'll love me too."

"You can get away with it." Ricky spoke into his glass. "You like women. You can get by."

"I don't like women right now though, do I?" Tinsley gestured at him with a vague sweep of a hand. "I like men. I like _a_ man, a very nontraditional man. And I'm divorced. So."

Ricky didn't swallow the drink in his mouth for a minute. Then he quietly said: "You were married."

"Few years back."

"What happened?"

He inhaled deeply, his arms still folded tight. "She, uh, she left me. She... Yeah. She left." He pressed his lips together in a line. He kept his gaze averted. "She left and never came back."

Ricky looked him over, a swift sweeping glance. "Do- Did you want her to come back?"

Tinsley shrugged. "A bit. But mainly no." He saw the other man's shoulders relax slightly. "It was over long before she left."

Ricky nodded, turning his head away. He poured another glass of scotch and put it on the desk for the other man. He hesitated going around to sit in Lucy's old chair. In the end he didn't. He sat on the same side of the desk Tinsley sat on, chairs angled towards each other. Tinsley sipped at his drink in silence. Ricky held his own between his knees, thumbs on the rim, fingers under the bottom.

'Do you have anyone?" he asked quietly.

Tinsley raised his eyebrows. 'Hm?"

"Do you have anyone in your life?"

Tinsley's voice was weary. "No. Not for a while now." He tapped his finger against his glass. When he used to wear his ring it would always make a bright tinging sound. He stopped. "But my mom used to say I was born lonely, that I was always just a bit... alone. Even as a child." He repeated the words she used to say. "Some people are just born to be alone, Charlie. They're born to be blue." 

Ricky looked at him without raising his head. "Charlie?"

Tinsley suddenly looked at him, their gazes meeting. His mouth opened. "Don't- I didn't mean to- I- I'd rather you pretend you didn't hear that."

Ricky watched the colour draining from his face. "Why not?"

"No one calls me that. Not anymore." He set his still-full glass aside, getting to his feet. "I'm sorry about your mom, Ricky. I didn't know her for too long, but I doubt I'll ever forget her."

Ricky's reply was hollow. "I feel like I could die."

Tinsley chewed on his lip, looking down at the other man. He looked small, so terribly small, but worse than that he looked miserable. He'd seen anger on the man's face more times than he could count. He'd seen happiness, genuine happiness, whenever he was with his mother. He'd seen him break down in tears. But he'd never seen this emptiness on his face, this lifelessness in his eyes. Tinsley could hardly stand it.

"I'll stay," he said, sudden. "I'll stay the night if you- if you don't want to be alone."

"No you won't." Holly crossed the office, her own eyes still red with previously-spilled tears. "You'll leave. You'll leave him alone. You're not good for him."

Tinsley stared at her. He stared at Ricky. "I- I just-"

"Go." Holly cut between the two men, her hands balled into fists by her sides. "Now."

He waited for Ricky to say something, to do something. The man didn't move. He didn't blink, he didn't speak. It didn't seem as if he was even thinking. Tinsley made up his mind then. He looked at Holly and said: "Fine. I'll go."

He returned in the evening. He didn't bother going to the front door. He went around the manor as quietly as possible. There were barely any lights on; just the hall and Lucy's room. The rest was black. He came across the open kitchen door, poking his head in before freezing. The Mayor sat at the table beside a single small candle, a glass of red wine in hand, staring right back at him. Tinsley swallowed, scratching the back of his head.

"I, uh-"

The Mayor looked away quite purposefully indeed. He sipped his wine, and continued looking through the photo album on the table in front of him. He didn't speak. He didn't hear. He didn't see. Tinsley hurried past. He mapped his way to the hall. Grandfather Goldsworth's eyes seemed sad, mournful. Tinsley blinked a few times before creeping up the stairs. He could hear a song playing from upstairs, melancholic, echoing around the empty halls.

He paused halfway up the stairs. Something had broken, a glass, or a bottle. It pierced the low music like a knife. Tinsley went up slowly, sparing wary glances behind him, above him, just in case a grey clad figure appeared around a corner. He jumped as something heavy scraped across a floor, and he didn’t have to guess who it was. From here, he could hear him crying. Tinsley went up the stairs.

The doors were cracked open, and the air in Ricky’s room was hazy with smoke. Tinsley bit his lip, hesitating to go in. He heard a few footsteps, staggered. Ricky hit against the table, stumbling, one hand pressed to the wood, the other holding a half-empty glass. He let his head hang, leaning forwards on the table, resting his elbows on it, his shoulders shaking. He rubbed at his eyes with his free hand, messily, spreading the tears instead of getting rid of them. Then he swept the table clear with a harsh curse, taking hold of it and flipping it into its side. He fell against it, retrieving his spilled glass from the floor with a trembling hand. He didn’t seem to care that it was empty as he pushed himself unsteadily back to his feet, still choking on his tears. The sound made Tinsley’s heart grow heavy.

“I can’t. I can’t.” Ricky mumbled the words over and over, shaking his head in a dazed manner as he made his meandering way to the dresser, leaning forwards against it, staring at himself in the mirror. He looked ten times his age. “I can’t.”

He rubbed at his cheek, at the stubble, his eyes big and round and red. He could almost hear her.  _You need to shave_. A pinch of his cheek.  _You never grew into them. Mi tesoro_. His lip trembled, and it came back in a fresh wave of realization that she was gone. He folded against the dresser, slamming his empty glass down on it as he linked his hands behind his head. He sobbed so hard it hurt. Tinsley watched from behind the door, wondering if he should dare go in. His normal nature said yes, but his normal nature applied only to normal people. Ricky was not such a person.

He flinched when Ricky spun and fired his glass across the room. It exploded against the wall, some shards joining the remnants of others below on the ground. Ricky stumbled against the bed, clutching the bedpost, his head hanging, fingers digging into the wood, and he wept. He teetered, clutching the bedpost for balance, pressing his forehead against it. He stood like this for a long while, his shoulders jumping with each breath. He sank to the floor and sat back against it, worn out in every way. He hugged his knees to his chest, and rested his head in the crook of his elbow. He didn’t move. He didn’t ever want to move again.

He didn’t react to the sound of glass crunching under a shoe. “Go away.”

He didn’t get a response. He didn’t want one. He just wanted whoever it was to leave him alone. Another shard of glass crunched, closer.

“I said go away,” he snapped, raising his head. “Just leave me-”

He didn’t finish his sentence. He stared at Tinsley, and Tinsley stared back. Ricky straightened up slightly, suddenly very much aware of how much of a state he was in. The room looked as if a zoo had run through it. He wiped at his nose with the back of his hand.

“What are you doing.”

Tinsley hesitated at the tone, at the open hostility. He shouldn’t have come. He was going to join the smashed glass on the floor. “I- I just thought-”

“What are you doing here. I told the Mayor not to let anyone in.”

Tinsley’s hands fidgeted by his sides. “I didn’t come in the front door.”

Ricky glared at him over his folded arms, his fingers balling up his shirt sleeves where they held them. “So you broke into my home.”

“I just thought maybe you wouldn’t want to- to be alone. Tonight.”

Ricky pushed himself to his feet in all his rumpled clothing. He crossed the space between them, only stumbling twice. He pointed a hard finger in the other man’s chest. “I don’t want to see you. Of all people. Of all fucking people you think I want to see  _you?_ Are you serious? Are you fucking stupid? You think you can help me? That your presence will somehow,  _somehow_ , not drive me up the fucking wall? Is that it?”

“Don’t hit me again.” Tinsley didn’t move as another clenched fist struck his chest, a faint shadow of how hard Ricky actually could hit. “Ricky, I said stop.”

“Go away,” whispered Ricky, his gaze distant, brimming with tears. He rested his fists on the taller man’s chest, letting his head join them. “I can’t do this.”

“Can’t do what?”

“Anything. Any of it. I can’t do it without her.” Ricky voice was hoarse from his crying. “I don’t have anyone now.”

Tinsley didn’t respond for a moment. Then he put his arms around the shorter man, and drew him in close, and ran a hand through his hair softly. He could feel him starting up again, the low sobs muffled by Tinsley’s shirt. Tinsley swallowed before saying: “I’ll stay.”

Ricky sniffed, speaking into the man’s chest. “What?”

“I’ll stay the night. If you want me to.”

Ricky didn’t react for a minute. Then he nodded, closing his eyes, feeling Tinsley’s fingers running through his hair, so gentle. “O- Okay.”

Tinsley led him over to the bed, and sat him down, and undid his tie, and unbuttoned his shirt. “Where do you keep your pajamas?”

Ricky looked at him for a long while, seemingly in another world entirely. Tears were still trickling down his cheeks. Tinsley decided to search himself. He went to the drawers, locating a pair before coming back over. Ricky was still staring at him with that odd look on his face.

“What?” Tinsley crouched down in front of him, helping him get the flannel pajama top on and buttoned. “What is it?”

“Why are you doing this?” asked Ricky numbly. “Why are you being so… nice?”

Tinsley chewed on his lip, absent-mindedly wrapping Ricky’s tie around his hand. “I, uh, I’ve been in a similar situation with all…” He gestured vaguely at the trashed room. “...this. And it was a bad time, but it was made worse because I didn’t have anyone either. And I was alone. And that’s the type of feeling you never let go of. You think about the time and the first thing you feel is the loneliness and how- and how no one cared enough to-” He kept his gaze lowered, going quiet. He cleared his throat. “No one deserves to be alone during a time like this. No one.”

Ricky’s hands fidgeted on his lap. “Not even me?”

Tinsley looked up at him, a slight frown on his face. “I- No, Ricky. Not even you."

Ricky turned his head aside, sniffing. He raised his watery eyes when Tinsley tucked a finger under his chin, bringing his head back around to face him. He sniffed again. "Can you close the door. I don't want Holly to know."

"Sure."

He closed the doors. He turned down the oils lamps, as low as they'd go. He took the record off the gramophone, placing it aside. He got undressed and got into the bed. Ricky clung to him instantly, burying his face in his shoulder, holding him so tightly and with such desperation it almost had Tinsley in tears too.

"I'm scared," whispered Ricky, words barely legible. "I'm so scared."

Tinsley stared at the dark ceiling, the patterns invisible. "That's okay."

"Is it?"

"Of course it is."

Ricky lay his head on the man's chest, back where it had been twenty-four hours ago. "But you're always brave."

Tinsley couldn't help but laugh. He did so quietly, just in case there was a listener or two. "No, Ricky. No, I just don't care. There's nothing left for me to care about, after all."

Ricky lowered his gaze, biting on his lip before speaking. "Do you think you'd ever care about anything again?"

Tinsley went quiet. "I'd like to think so."

"Not since your- your wife?"

Tinsley skipped a few beats. "No. There's been one since her."

"One what?" asked Ricky, just as quiet. His voice shook a bit.

"One person I loved with all I had," whispered Tinsley. His voice was thick with unshed tears. "The most important thing in my life." He suddenly sniffed, bringing a hand off Ricky to wipe at his eyes. "My little girl. My Ellie."

Ricky went still. He sat up to look down at the other man's face. Tinsley had his arm pressed across his eyes, his fist clenched, his mouth a wobbly line. Ricky spoke hoarsely. 

"What happened?"

"I- I'd rather not talk about it," replied Tinsley, his words choked. His arm still lay across his eyes, hiding them away.

Ricky lay back down, for once taking the hint. He held onto Tinsley,  and this time Tinsley held him just as desperately. He thought of his mother. He cried on and off all night until he exhausted himself into sleep. Tinsley didn't sleep a wink. He stared at the ceiling and watched the daylight making the interwoven pattern grow clearer. The dawn of a new day had never seemed so threatening.


	20. Preview - Blood for Blood

The car ground to a halt, wheels cracking the gravel. The bell tolled, reverberating in his head. Ricky let out a breath through gritted teeth, feeling sick to his stomach. He refused to look out the window, at the piranhas, the hyenas, their sly eyes and sly smiles. He felt like a little boy again; afraid, insecure. Those people out there were dying to rip him apart. He closed his eyes, letting his head hang forwards. He straightened up almost instantly as he heard the car door click, swinging open a second later. From now on, there would be no time for weakness. He didn’t get out. He sat, and he stared ahead, and he cursed all of them out there. Then he stepped out of the car.

He smoothed down his coat, keeping his eyes on the stone steps ahead. A path had been carved for him, voluntarily or involuntarily. He could see them waiting either side, greedy crows, ready to squawk their sympathies. He hated them. He swallowed hard, his throat tight. His feet hit the pavement, striding confidently. He hoped his face matched. He went up the steps, rubbed his gloved fingers against each other, hands by his sides. The Mayor’s steady footsteps echoed his. He let his gaze drift over the faces until they found his. Tinsley looked back, and there was no simpering smile, no insincere pout, no badly-disguised smirk like there was on all the other faces. There was just Tinsley, as level-headed and quiet-eyed as always. Ricky didn't look away from him as he passed by, his own face guarded, their gazes scraping off each other sharp enough to cast sparks. They were the only two people in the world. Then the Minister spoke.

“Mr Goldsworth, may I offer my deepest sympathies.”

Ricky looked him over, face stone cold. “You may.”

A skipped beat. “The mourners are waiting.”

“They can keep waiting.” Ricky pulled off his gloves a finger at a time, letting the cold air at his hands. “I want a moment alone.”

The priest blinked, turning his head to follow Ricky with his little eyes. “Mr Goldsworth, these people have come from near and very, very far. They’ve been waiting-”

“They can keep waiting,” came Ricky’s voice, sharp enough to cut him in half.

He went through the church doors, their red stained glass bright and bloody. He let them shut behind him. The smell of incense mixed into the air, joining the tolling bell. His footsteps echoed against the marble as he went up the center of the aisle, towards her open coffin, towards the grandness of the altar, the gold and the glamour and the coldness of it all. Holly was there already. She stood beside the coffin in her long grey coat, hands clasped in front of her, head ducked. She didn’t look up, even as Ricky joined her. He looked at his mother’s face. They’d done the makeup wrong. It made her look too soft.

“She loved you more than anyone in this world, Ricky.” Her voice was quiet, just in case there were listeners. She swallowed before continuing. “More than anything.”

He let his hands rest on the edge of the coffin, his jaw clenched. “I know.”

“People criticized her day and night for keeping a bastard child,” said Holly, distant, as if she was talking to herself. “But you’re more her than you could even know.”

He didn’t respond. He swallowed hard.

“She built an empire, Ricky.” She finally looked at him with sad gray eyes. “It’s yours now. All of it.”

“It’s ours.”

She blinked. “Ours?”

He didn’t look away from Lucy, his eyes traveling over her face. “I’ll need help. I know I will. I need you to stay.”

“I- I’d be honored, Ricky.”

“Good.” He bit his lip, staying silent for a moment. “They’re going to try and take it away from me. All of them. Out there.”

“I know.” She placed a hand on his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Solidarity is more important than anything else right now, Ricky. Solidarity and support. You cannot show weakness, do you understand?”

He nodded, his breaths beginning to tremble. “What happens if I do?”

Horsley sighed, turning her gaze from Ricky to Lucy. “Your mother struggled too, Ricky. Not that anyone knew. But she died a long time ago. She died, and she was born again.” Horsley gave his hand another squeeze, harder this time. “It’s your turn, Ricky. Kill your old self. Become the man you need to be. Become the man we need you to be.”

He turned his head, his eyes watery. He couldn’t blink, lest he shed a tear. “I don’t know how.”

Horsley looked back firmly. “The first step is the most painful, Ricky. But it will get easier after.”

He nodded again, lips pressed together in a line. “What’s the first step?”

“No more personal indulgences, Ricky.” She spoke softly, her eyes searching his face for even a flicker of resistance. She watched him close his eyes, watched the tears make their way down his cheeks, drip off his jaw. “No more. From now on, duty is everything. So you can keep this empire for your own children.”

His eyes opened. “…My own children?”

“Your own children,” she repeated firmly. “You’re almost thirty. You should take a wife, and have a child.”

He stared at her, eyes round and helpless. “But I don’t- I can’t-”

“I know, Ricky. I know.” She kept her hand on his; the look on his face was painful. “But this is where duty takes precedence. You need a wife. A supporting woman who will be your rock.”

“I can’t,” he whispered. “I can’t marry a woman. I can’t- I can’t have a child with a woman.”

“You can’t have one with a man either. And most definitely not the man you’re currently involved with.” Horsley smiled sadly, a small one. “Duty comes before everything now, Ricky. You need to stop what you’ve been doing, and take the wheel. You can’t drive a car with one hand.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Get rid of Tinsley. And you can start that process now.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://open.spotify.com/user/kmgfncjvuj1o07ohkl20xfrwx/playlist/1sGeHdqJ8WbMr2CW7t7BL2?si=9d_aCq3EStiMCIf-GPIE9A
> 
> playlist that I'm using for inspo your part 2 if ur interested!!


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